


Melting Fire

by Freecat15



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Drama & Romance, F/M, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-05-21 06:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 100,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6042271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freecat15/pseuds/Freecat15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set right after Dead Things.<br/>The night after, all he wants is talk.<br/>The night after, there’s nothing she wants less than talking.<br/>And suddenly they find themselves in another dimension; one that Buffy can’t leave. There’s only one way to get her out. A way with consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After the Storm (Part I)

**Author's Note:**

> The story is completely written. The warnings are not about anything grave, nothing that can't be seen in the show too.  
> Disclaimer: The characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutent Enemy. Most of the settings too. The plot is mine, and so are one demon and the veil. I don't earn anything, copyright infringement is certainly not intended.  
> Betaed by the wonderful SeaPea.

** Chapter 1 **

**After the Storm (Part I)**

_And after the storm,_  
I run and run as the rains come  
And I look up, I look up,  
on my knees and out of luck,  
I look up.

_(Mumford and Sons)_

 

 

He carefully scrunches his nose; just a little, only to find out whether or not it still stings, or by some miracle has stopped hurting. Hissing in pain, he curses his stupid habit to do such a thing. No miracles, not for him.

He stretches a little and silently curses again; why on earth he decided to lie down on the sarcophagus instead of his soft, fairly comfortable bed he has no idea. Kind of a habit too, he guesses, after having been beaten to a bloody pulp. Only last time this happened, the Slayer came to him afterward and…yeah, well, not gonna happen this time.

This time it’s her handiwork he’s recovering from.

He slowly moves the ice pack from one side to the other. He doesn’t have to feel around to find out where to put it next; there are bruises all over his face, so one place is as good as any other.

He sighs. If only it somehow had helped her, he would be perfectly content to nurse his beaten face; that’s how much of a poof he is these days.

He knows it didn’t, though.

He still feels kinda nauseous when he thinks about the despair radiating off of her last night. God, he wants to help her so badly, but everything he does seems to be, well, not helping.

Because she won’t let him.

Not emotionally, anyway. It’s not what she wants from him; he knows that. The rare moments of affection between them mostly end abruptly the second she becomes aware of the shift, either with, depending on the grade of bodily entanglement, her turning away or running off. Not without hurling her disgust in his face, colorfully illustrated with words, grimaces, glances.

Never without that.

Every time she leaves him behind, he picks up the shattered pieces of his pride, swearing to himself that this was the last time that the bitch treated him like dirt. Pictures himself leaving town. Yet already knowing better. Because she never will manage to smash his love for her the same way as his pride. Never his love.

The love she doesn’t want from him. The love she so insistently denies to be real.

Yet the love he’s sure she needs from him all the same.

It drains him, seeing her miserable, and not being able to help her. Doing everything he can, and yet never doing the right thing. Knowing that more than once he did something so wrong that it hurt her; that he was not only not helping, but making it worse somehow.

And he never knows what went wrong.

He really should leave town.

Like it has become kind of a habit, his hand wanders to the pocket of the duster he’s still wearing, too battered to pull it out when he arrived at his crypt. His fingers slowly feeling for a small piece of paper, relief soothes his features when they find what he was looking for.

It’s still there.

Not that he ever seriously considered going through with this. The thought alone, though disturbing and comforting in equal measures, makes him still shiver in revulsion.

It’s good to have the option, though. And in moments like this, desperate as he is now, it sometimes seems to be the only reasonable way to go.

Except reasonable really isn’t his cup of tea.

And yet…

He cringes when he thinks of the night two days ago. For a moment, it had felt as if they had a real relationship. And he had to go and bollocks it up with his stupid remark about her being an animal. He frowns, irritated. Who would have thought that she could be that offended by something expressing nothing but his admiration? Amazingly, she didn’t run away, though. For once she didn’t even run when he started to talk about them, something that _always_ sets her defense mechanism in motion; not that knowing this ever helped keeping his gob shut. But that night it didn’t chase her off immediately. She even conceded that she liked him. Well, sometimes. And then she belied her words about never trusting him and did exactly that.

But of course, that’s not really a news flash. Ever since he can hurt her, she lays her life in his hands every time she’s with him. Still, the thing with the handcuffs made it blatantly obvious.

And then, last night, she came to his crypt. He could feel her, lingering at his doorstep, only the door separating them. And what he sensed there was not only her presence, but something else, something more; he could’ve sworn that she was longing for him. He felt a rush of happiness course through his body like he hasn’t felt in ages, if ever. Until he opened the door and found the steps empty. She had vanished.

The rest of the night went straight to hell, of course.

He shifts a little, letting out a ragged breath at the pain it still causes.

He meant it when he told her to explain it to him last night. After all, he had only tried to help her out of that predicament she had gotten into. He understood that she felt guilty having killed a human. He knows of course that killing humans counts as wrong, despite what she is thinking; he doesn’t need a soul for that. He even gets it that for her, it’s not the knowledge about right and wrong. It’s deeply rooted in her sight of the world, just as deep as the knowledge that she has to eat and drink to survive.

He kinda lost that sight in that stable over a century ago.

The feeling of guilt for having done the wrong thing he understands, though; he knows how it feels. There’s still not one day gone by since that night in May that he hasn’t felt it. The guilt of having failed her, of not having kept his promise. The guilt of her dying.

What he doesn’t understand, however, is her determination to pay for what happened, in the only way she could think of. For him, turning themselves into prison doesn’t make a lick of sense, especially not in her case. Being locked away would do the world a lot more damage than only one dead human girl. And what about her sister? He remembers all too well the months Buffy had been…away. And he really doesn’t want to see the Niblet so lost again.

Doesn’t want to feel so lost again either.

He tried though. Tried to figure out what was going on in that head of hers, like he has done for months now. Tried to understand why the feeling of guilt over accidently killing a human weighed so much heavier than everything else; than her sister, than her friends, even than her duty as slayer. He didn’t find any explanation, which is why he intends to talk to her about it once again later. He so badly wants to understand this; because if he could, maybe he’d finally have a breakthrough. Would finally understand _her_.

Because he really doesn’t.

He gets that now.

Even though he more than once thought he did and has told her so, and he still thinks that none of the insights he gained about her were entirely wrong. Yet, he feels that he never really got to the core of it.

God, he knows of course that she doesn’t love him, knows that she is disgusted with herself for doing those incredible things with him. Well, that’s hard to miss, as often as she told him. She still considers him a monster, not capable of love, no matter how hard he tries to convince her, to show her that he genuinely loves her. To show her that he’d do anything for her. For some reason, she can’t believe him. Doesn’t want to either.

But she keeps coming back. Yearning for his touch; not tender of course, God forbid. But his touch nonetheless. Desperately longing for the way he makes her body feel.

He clenches his jaws. The sex with her is great. Of course it is. And yet…

It’s not at all what it would be like if he was allowed to do it the way he’d like to. It’s the only way he can get that much from her, but sometimes he wonders if the emotional pain it causes him, causes them, is worth it. He longs for being allowed to also show her the tenderness he feels when he’s with her, but he’s learned his lesson. He’s learned to keep it to himself, the soft touches, the loving words, the secure embraces; as much as it eats him up from the inside.

Sometimes he wonders whether he should ask her why. Why she lets them indulge in their heat, but denies them any warmth.

In the end though, he always decides to keep his gob shut and take what he can get, too afraid to destroy what little they have.

But he never once stopped hoping for more.

And that’s why he never stopped trying to understand her. Why last night, he begged her to explain it to him. Instead she chose to punch him into next week, and he let her.

Because then, all off a sudden, it hadn’t been about the dead girl anymore. _You don't have a soul! There is nothing good or clean in you. You are dead inside! You can't feel anything real! I could never be your girl!_ Somehow he knew it wasn’t even about him anymore, even though every word she beat into him was directed at him. The desperation and pain rolling off of her almost tangibly spoke about something else. Something he couldn’t decipher.

And he had nothing to offer but letting himself be beaten to mush.

He snorts, his fingers ghosting over the bruises in his face; again she rejected everything but his body, this time as a target for a different kind of violence. Always only his body.

He squeezes his eyes shut, and then he lets the pain wash over him.

 

                                   ******************************************

 

Buffy leans her head against the post and sighs tiredly.

She told the others she was going on patrol, but, oddly enough, she’s not yet ready for that. She convinced herself that she just needed a small break, but deep down she knows she’s just worried she’ll meet Spike.

And she’s definitely not ready for _that_.

She sat here so often over the last few months, but rarely alone. Tonight the porch is empty; only she sits there on the upper stair, her face tinted silvery-blue by the first moon rays. Of course she is alone; no one ever sits here with her except Spike. And the last time she saw him, he lay on the ground of a dank alley.

She closes her eyes, trying to shut the images out, but it’s futile. They haunt her, those eyes. The way he looked at her, after he held still, let her pound into him, again and again, without the slightest attempt to defend himself. Gliding even back into his human disguise, being the man she doesn’t want him to be, desperately needs him not to be, while she threw fist after brutal fist in his face.

After he had done nothing but try to help her.

She gets that now. Got it even then, in a way. It’s not his fault that he just can’t understand why she had to do this when she barely can.

That it’s all she got left, this one act of doing the right thing. Because nothing else in her life feels right.

 _She_ feels so wrong. It’s like she lost some crucial parts of herself in that grave, leaving her feeling like living in the negative of a photo, somehow. Everything is in the right place, but the colors aren’t. So much so, in fact, that it hurts the eye if you look on it for too long. Completely blurring her vision of how things ought to be, ought to be done.

And so she did things she _knew_ were wrong, oh so wrong. Did them again and again, in the feeble attempt to get a tiny piece of herself back. A tiny bit of feeling real, of feeling _any_ thing, that she only was granted when she was with him. When he made her body feel, making her forget for a small amount of time that it’s only her body that can feel something. And so the only piece she ever got of herself was just another piece of _wrongBuffy_.

God, as much as it scared her – the thought of having come back wrong somehow was such a relief. It was at least a damn good explanation for why she acted so un-Buffy-like. Why she neglected everything she should care for just to do those unspeakable things with the vampire she hated. Shouldn’t have hated, though, because isn’t it impossible to hate a _thing_? She snorts derisively. Well, at least now she can; hate him, that is. Because after that night in the alley, she knows he deserves to be treated not like a thing, but like a real person, because he acted more like one than she did. He recognized her need to put her anger and disgust on him, and he let her.

He couldn’t have understood why she needed it, though. Couldn’t have known that all the bitter insults she threw into him along with her fists were directed at herself. Because all those weeks, she was the one acting as if she had no soul. She was the one without a shred of good in her, desperately clinging to the fragile frame around her, artificially telling her how to behave.

She was the one who was dead inside. Who couldn’t feel anything real. Because she came back wrong.

Except she didn’t.

Again Buffy feels tears stinging her eyes. She didn’t come back wrong. That’s what Tara told her anyway, and she trusts her.

Sadly, with her words that were meant to reassure, Tara pulled the rug out from under her, shot the only bearable reason for her behavior to hell.

She isn’t a demon of some kind, she’s only Buffy. There’s nothing left to hide behind, no scapegoat to lay her wrongness upon.

Tara was surprisingly understanding, even offered her forgiveness. But she can’t be, doesn’t want to be forgiven. Forgiveness would somehow turn all the wrongness into something acceptable. It can’t be that simple. And she feels that she doesn’t deserve that.

Buffy takes her head in her hands, bracing her arms on her thighs, and lets the tears flow. The last time she sat like that, he showed up. After she had stomped him to the ground with her words. He came to kill her, and stayed with her instead. Offered his help. Shared the silence with her like only he can, despite usually being the one who never shuts the hell up. Helped her more that night than she ever cared to admit.

That night she saw a glimpse of something in him and for the first time recognized it for what it was - humanity. But she couldn’t acknowledge that. Not then, never now.

But how can she even think about not acknowledging that part of him, after everything he has done for her since she came back? After he has been there for her like no one else, providing the refuge from the hell that her life had become whenever she needed it? Even if partly he acted out of selfishness, hoping to win her over; he still has given her everything she needed, no matter how much it hurt him.

Because she knows, of course, how much she hurt him, least of all by pummeling him into a bloody mess. Saw it in his eyes more than once, chose to ignore it just as often.

She used him as nothing but a means to make herself feel something. Secure in the knowledge that he was only a soulless thing. She couldn’t hurt a thing. Every doubt that ever tried to raise its head pushed away, fortified by the notion that she wasn’t responsible anyway, because she came back wrong.

But if he isn’t a thing, and she isn’t wrong, how can she be forgiven?

It doesn’t make things any easier that a part of her is disappointed that she didn’t turn herself in at last. The part that continually is too tired to deal with her life. Dawn was right; she wasn’t sorry to let herself been taken away. In prison, besides the punishment she deserved, she would’ve had some sort of peace; no slayer duties, no sister to take care of, no friends to put on a mask for. No vampire who claimed to love her.

Just peace. Almost heaven. The heaven she still longs for, so badly. Even though she realized, being invisible and threatened to turn into pudding, that she doesn’t really want to die anymore, heaven still affords great allurement for her.

Yeah. No heaven. Not for her.

As it is, she’ll have to go on dealing with her life. Somehow will have to deal with Spike.

If only she knew how.

She squeezes her eyes shut, and then she lets the pain wash over her.

 

                                   ******************************************

 

He senses her a few seconds before he can actually hear her. He wonders, not for the first time, whether or not she can sense him from that distance, too; if so, she makes no effort to acknowledge his presence.

When she comes into his view though, he has his answer; at least for now, as deep in thought as she appears to be. She rarely wears her emotions openly on her face in front of others; with the exception of anger, annoyance and disgust, of course. But now, none of those show; what he sees instead makes his insides turn into a knot, since she’s so obviously feeling miserable.

Had she known he was there, she would have never allowed herself to let him see this. Not anymore, not since they first kissed.

He sometimes wishes they never had.

Not that he wants to relinquish the memories of kissing, of shagging her. But in the rare moments he’s able to admit it to himself, he’d prefer to have their relationship back to the point when they both could relax around each other - the weeks after she came back.

The weeks she almost seemed to like him.

Despite the sex, they have never again been that close.

He tenses when he sees two vampires sneaking up on her from behind and opens his mouth ready to warn her, but then he lets it snap closed again. He knows she’ll notice in time, and they’ll be no match for her.

Although there’s no visible sign of it, he knows the exact moment when she picks up on them. He silently watches her spinning around, kicking the smaller one against the chest, propelling him against the nearest tombstone. The taller one gets a bone cracking punch into his face, and Spike wrinkles his nose when he hears the fledgling’s break, knowing all too well how that feels, having her fist crashing against his nose.

She fights with them for a long while, much longer than he knows would be necessary. She doesn’t even reach for her stake; she wants to pound and kick and smash them, hurt them like she hurts inside.

That he remembers, too. Only that she shows _them_ enough mercy to dust them in the end.

Without one of her quips, the whole time. Maybe it’s what pains him most.

He takes a drag on his fag and flicks it to the ground.

“Found someone else to pummel, you have. Lucky me.”

She doesn’t move a muscle, but he sees her shoulders tensing. “Go away,” she says bleakly.

He glides down from the crypt roof he’s been sitting on and saunters over to her. Why the hell doesn’t he just stay away? Oh, he knows exactly why. For the same reason why all his thoughts of leaving town, leaving her behind and liberating himself from his love for her, fly right out the window the second he sees her. Or hears her. Or thinks of her, for that matter. He just can’t. Bloody ponce that he is, he’s not strong enough.

“What, no funny comeback today, Slayer? No hilarious insults?” She lifts her eyes up to look into his face, and for a split second, he sees various emotions flitting over her features at the sight of his bruises; compassion, guilt, sorrow. “Got at least your wit successfully locked away if not yourse...?” Her fist connects with his nose before he can finish the word or flash her a smirk, eliciting the same noise as earlier with the fledgling, cutting him effectively short.

“Ow! Bloody hell!” He holds his nose and casts her an indignant glance, but as so often happens, the rising anger at her for using him as her punching bag and at himself for letting her is at war inside him with regret for having added to her agony. His eyes soften, and so does his voice. “Buffy – “ he tries, but another punch hurls him across the graveyard.

“I told you to go away,” she fumes, and even though he can see a hint of remorse hidden underneath the rage, it’s not enough for him to rein in his own anger any longer. He’s on his feet again within a second, leaps at her and sends her flying with a blow under her chin.

God, this feels so good.

She rolls off her shoulder, jumps up and bounces at him in one fluent movement, her fist aiming at his head again immediately. “What is wrong with you?” she yells, his arms now successfully blocking her blows infuriating her even more.

Staring at her incredulously, he catches her wrists and holds them in place for a moment. “What is wrong with _me_?” he asks before she flips around, freeing herself in the process, and uses the momentum to kick against his shoulder. He holds his ground though, getting a hold on her ankle and spinning her around. Still in the air, her other foot shoots out and kicks his chest. He staggers back, but again catches her punching hands when she pounces on him instantly.

“You just...can’t...stay away...from me,” she spits out, her voice strained from the struggle of wrenching her hands free. When he holds them viselike, she uses her head as a ram.

It happens the second their foreheads knock into each other.

A blinding light appears around them, the air crackles and they both feel a force hitting their bodies like a giant’s iron fist, sending them down to their knees. Their fight forgotten for the moment, they instinctively hold onto each other, striving to stay at least that upright and not to find themselves crushed down to the ground.

Their eyes wide open, they turn their heads to every side to get a clue of what is going on; yet, they find nothing unusual, except the bluish glowing light that is arching over them. And then Buffy sees it.

Her hands clutch his shoulders, her fingers digging deeply into his flesh. “Uh, Spike?” Her whisper oozes so much fright that he reflexively wraps his arms around her. She doesn’t shrug them off, doesn’t even seem to realize them holding her. His eyes dart to her face, immediately following her gaze then.

“Oh, not good,” he breathes, “not good at all.”

Where had been graves and crypts just a few seconds ago, brightly lit by an almost full moon, there is now nothing but blackness in one direction outside the arch.

They promptly struggle to their feet and back away from the dark, only to realize quickly that it’s pointless; the glowing arch as well as the blackness is moving with them.

They are stuck.

“A portal…that’s a portal, right?”

“Yeah.” He had never before heard her voice as tiny as now, and he just wishes to have something else to say.

Her hands grip him even tighter and drag him with her toward the other end where the cemetery still allures. “We have to get out of here,” she urges, panic seeping into her voice.

Spike has the sneaking suspicion that it won’t do any good; they are here for a reason, and they won’t escape just by running out of the danger zone. But he never saw her panicking before; she’s the Slayer, she doesn’t panic. Full stop. So there must be something seriously wrong, must be more about it than just being trapped in the portal to another dimension; something she sees, even if he doesn’t.

He tries running toward the exit with her, admittedly as much on her behalf as for his own survival instinct. Until he comes to a sudden halt, encircling the Slayer’s waist with one arm to hold her back.

“Crap,” she says. Out of the blue they stand in front of a deeply red skinned demon, about eight feet high, just an arm’s length away, blocking the exit. Their fists shoot out at the same time, but it’s too late. The demon’s arms, one and a half times as long as theirs, are already swinging toward them, and with his gigantic hands he shoves them back.

As strong as they both are, with the force field still somewhat holding them in place, they have nothing to counter.

With a strangled twin gasp, they tumble backward into the black.

 


	2. Promises, Promises

** Chapter 2 **

**Promises, Promises**

 

 

They land on their backs, hitting the ground with a bang. It doesn’t take them long to pick themselves up again though, taking in defensive stances, positioning themselves back to back without thinking. The portal is still open, but now they stand on the other side, the graveyard visible through it like a window. The huge demon, however, is gone, as suddenly as it had appeared.

Spike lets his eyes roam their surroundings, which look a little less dark than they did before now that they find themselves within. Only at the far end opposite the portal threatens darkness so pitch-black that it almost hurts the eyes to look at it, and involuntarily he shrinks back a little until he hits the Slayer’s back.

It’s then that he feels her trembling, and he knows she’s still on the verge of panic. Since there’s nothing to fend off in sight, he turns around, stepping around her in the process to watch her face-on. He tips his head down a notch to catch her gaze. “What’s with you, Slayer?” he asks, bewildered, but without sparing him a glance or any other indication that she heard him, she slowly turns her head away from him. Her eyes latch onto the darkness that looms like a veil in front of them, and then she doesn’t move anymore. For a moment, he thinks that she’s fallen into some kind of trance. It reminds him with a pang of the day in the gas station, when she went catatonic after losing Dawn to Glory.

“Bloody brilliant,” he mutters under his breath, and then addresses her once more. “Slayer? Buffy, you’re with me?” he asks, emphatically, yet surprisingly gentle; seeing her in fear tugs at his heartstrings in a way he’s not used to. To his relief that’s all it takes to snap her out of it this time. Her head spins toward him, her eyes wide, and he realizes instantly that instead of having gone catatonic, she’s in full blown panic mode now.

“We have to get out of here, we have to get out of here,” she mumbles between ragged breaths, and then screams, “We have to get out of here!”

Spike stares at her, completely taken aback. Sure, getting shoved into what he suspects to be an unknown demon dimension is not his favorite way to pass the time either; but they both have faced worse, some of it even together. And she never had been scared, not even a little. At least not on her behalf. She’d been calm in the face of danger, resolved, pissed off maybe, yeah. But never scared. He’s not sure what to do about it, since this is unknown territory for him, and he wonders if catatonic Buffy wouldn’t have been the lesser evil. Every instinct tells him to take her in his arms and embrace her reassuringly while whispering soothing words in her ear. But he’s not fond of the thought of getting his nose broken right now, and that would be her natural response to an embrace of any sort; coming from him, that is. So he settles on the only other way he can think of to bring her back to her senses; he slaps her in the face, belatedly realizing that her response to this solution will probably be the same.

Except it isn’t. She just goes still, silently staring at him, an expression in her eyes he can’t fathom. When she doesn’t move for a while nor says anything, he begins to get antsy, his mind racing in search for anything else he might do about that state of mind she’s in. And then he sees tears welling up in her eyes, and that eventually throws him entirely. He doesn’t think anymore, just pulls her into his arms, holding her tight, trying to infuse her with his strength.

He is very aware of the fact that she lets him hold her, recognizing it as proof of just how scared she really is. “We’ll get out, pet. We’ll find a way.” When he hears himself soothing her, he rolls his eyes and clenches his jaw; the way he speaks, he could as well have told her how much he loved her, because his low and tender voice did exactly this, only without using the actual words. And after last night, he really isn’t ready to make a fool of himself again so fast. But then he feels her shiver, and he doesn’t care anymore. “It’s only a soddin’ demon world, right? Nothin’ we can’t handle. We’ll be outta here in a wink.”

And then she speaks again, and his stomach drops. “I don’t know if I want to,” she whispers flatly.

Fear grips his heart like an ice cold claw.

“What?” is all he manages to get out. He loosens his hold on her, grabbing her shoulders and holding her at arm’s length. He stares at her, trying to figure out why she said that; he sees her head slowly turning toward the darkness again, and has to fight an onslaught of panic himself now at the view of the dreamy, almost enchanted expression on her face.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” When she doesn’t answer, he shakes her, just once, to draw her attention. “What do you mean, Slayer?”

When she speaks again he feels the instant need to drag her out as fast as he can. “It’s heaven, Spike…” she says, her voice as dreamy as her facial expression. “I can feel it, and it wants me. It pulls me there. It’s hard to resist.” But then her head snaps back to him, her face frightened as before. “But I can’t! I can’t go there, Spike! I…I have to…Dawn! And, and, and Willow, and I‘m the Slayer! I have to…I _can’t_!”

The last words come out as a desperate outcry, just as her eyes are already drawn back to the darkness. Spike stands dumbfounded, and when he doesn’t react immediately, her voice becomes longing again. “But I want so badly…” She pauses, narrowing her eyes, contemplating. Again her head spins around to face him, and the longing is replaced by a pleading look. “No, I… I don’t want that anymore, right?” She grabs his arms now, gripping them tight, holding on for dear life. “That’s what I found out, right? When I was invisible? That I don’t want to be dead anymore, right? A small part of me, anyway... but that’s something, right?”

Spike doesn’t know what comes more as a shock to him; that she still yearned to be dead up to this day, or that he hadn’t realized it. He had known from the beginning how miserable she felt; had known at some point that their affair was a desperate attempt to break out of it. He had also known that her way of coping didn’t really work out as she wanted, had repeatedly tried to show her other ways; tried to help her accept and embrace the darkness within her he knows is there, but is firmly denied by her. He’d done everything he could think of to make her feel better.

But despite her outburst last night he hadn’t known that the biggest part of her still had such a strong death wish. Yet, when he sees her head swiveling again, wistfully eyeing the darkness, he knows it’s true. And the small part of her that apparently began to find a way out of it won’t be enough to hold her back for long. Not with the temptation of peace and warmth and completeness right within reach.

He wonders whether it could be possible; whether maybe some power had made up its mind and wanted to fulfill the Slayer’s wish. If so, he has no idea how to react, not sure if he even has the right to hold her back. _If any part of that was Buffy, I wouldn't let her_ … It’s still what he thinks, what every fiber of his being feels. But after seeing her so miserable the whole time…He only can hope it’ll not be his call to decide.

He reaches out into the blackness with all his senses, trying to decipher what could be waiting for them there. At first, there’s nothing. But then, letting his senses dive in deeper, he suddenly reels back, gripping Buffy tight to not lose his hold on her.

He doesn’t know what it is behind the veil of darkness, but one thing he is sure about – it’s not heaven.

It most definitely feels a lot more like hell to him.

Breathing heavily, he forces himself to focus on the task at hand, which would be keeping her from giving in. He clutches her shoulders a little tighter and turns her around, so that she can’t see anymore what she discerns as heaven.

“Look at me,” he urges, locking his eyes with hers. “That’s not heaven, Buffy. You can’t go there. I’ve no bloody clue what it is, but it’s not heaven, okay?” He holds her gaze, and when she doesn’t answer, he repeats, barking this time, “Okay?” When she nods, he backs away as far as he can, grabbing her arm and tearing her with him. Relief washes over him when he sees her relaxing a little, but it’s only short lived.

After walking backwards only a few yards, he feels as if crossing a threshold, the air around him getting a little cooler, a little less tight, and he knows he entered the portal again. For a moment he wonders why it’s still open anyway, but the second she reaches it, he no longer cares. It doesn’t matter, because he can’t pull her through, no matter how hard he tries.

“Bugger!”

Her eyes widen in fear again at the realization that Spike can go further, but she can’t follow; that there is a barrier she can’t cross. “Spike?”

He hears the panic creeping back in and grips her arm a little tighter.

“Don’t know what it is, luv. But we’ll suss it out, right?”

Her head turns backward, trying to catch sight of the alluring darkness once more. “I have to…”

“No!” he bellows, cutting her short. He cups her cheek and turns her head back to him, calming down with an effort and catching her gaze again. “Don’t even look there, Buffy. You don’t want to go there, trust me.” He takes a deep, somewhat shaky breath, and then one more. “And you said it yourself, you don’t want to be …in heaven anyway. Not anymore.”

He feels that it costs her a lot to let her eyes stay glued to his, but he can also see that, after a moment, it seems to strengthen her in return. When he breathes in and out deeply again, he sees her eyes drop to his mouth briefly before they snap back to his eyes, and then she adopts his breathing rhythm. He doesn’t know if it happens unconsciously, but it obviously helps her to focus on him, away from the veil.

After a long while, eyes locked, breathing together, she regains some of her composure; she’s not trembling so badly anymore, and the breathing gets easier.

“You better, Slayer?” His low voice gives away how concerned he still is. His shoulders sag a little in relief when she silently nods, releasing a bit of his tension.

“Spike?” She sounds exhausted.

“Yeah?”

“Why can’t I go further?”

He looks beside him and up, watches the glowing portal he still stands in. “Buggered if I know. But it feels like…you know, not invited in.”

“Oh,” she says. He sees an expression scurrying over her face almost as if something just dawned on her. “That’s what it feels like?”

“Well,” he replies, “Figure it’s like that. Not half as funny bein’ on the receivin’ end, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” she admits quietly, something akin to regret flickering in her eyes. He raises one brow. Is she feeling sorry? She must be pretty shaken then.

“Yeah, just a shame that no one’s here to say the magical words.” He looks through the portal, and on the other side he can still see the cemetery. “The demon seems to be gone. Look, I should probably find out if I can go through entirely. I could find Red to get you out with a spell or something,” he suggests, but as soon as he feels her tensing he knows that it’s not going to happen. Her hands are clutching his duster in a second, the barely suppressed fright blazing in her eyes again.

“Don’t,” she blurts out, but then she shrinks back a notch, her eyes sliding aside for a moment, embarrassed about her clinginess. “I still…I still feel the pull, you know? It hasn’t gotten any less. And if you’re not here to keep me with you, I…I don’t know how long I can resist.” She swallows, apparently fighting an inner battle; but then she makes up her mind, her fear winning over her pride. “Stay here and help me, Spike. Please.”

His eyes soften, but he doesn’t reply immediately. He considers her silently for a long while, thinking about his options. He sees the difficulties she has to keep focused on him instead of giving in to the pull. He tries to imagine what could happen to her if she let herself go there; if he let her go. He remembers what he felt earlier, reaching into the blackness, and he shudders; if what he’s done in his unlife was evil, he knows there doesn’t exist a word for what is expecting her behind the veil. And he has no idea whether, once she crossed the line, he’d still be able to bring her back.

He casts a quick glance through the portal, noting that it’s still open, that the cemetery is still waiting. He wonders if, come daylight, there will be people who are gonna find the opening, maybe even enter. For a brief moment he feels the hope flaring inside that maybe the Scoobies will come looking for her, that they might find a way to get Buffy out. But the hope dies down the second he catches sight of a little mouse that seems to be frozen amidst running across a grave. That’s when he knows that, for whatever reason, time doesn’t pass by outside.

They are trapped.

Well, she is anyway; but there’s no way in hell that he’s gonna leave her here.

They can’t get out, but they can’t go inside either.

They are truly buggered.

He presses his lips on her hair in a light kiss, amazed that she doesn’t draw back.

“’t’s okay, pet. I won’t leave you alone.”

 

                                   ********************************************

 

In the end he still leaves her.

Another promise he breaks, he thinks as he casts her bound form a long glance, biting his lip until he draws blood. It hurts so much, the feeling of failing her again, that he has to conjure another kind of pain to distract him, if only for a few seconds.

It hurts even though he knows that at least this time, he’s doing the right thing.

It’s the only possibility he can think of.

If he’s not wrong about the kind of demon that brought them here, that is. If he’s mistaken, however, then they aren’t on the doorstep of the dimension he thinks they are. Then time won’t pass by differently in here as he hopes it will either. Even more important, he’ll have no bloody clue how to find her again.

And if he really found her, he probably would be too late.

But it’s all he could come up with, and her ideas either didn’t work out or weren’t even worth a second thought.

*

_They sat for what felt like hours on the floor in the small space between the portal and the veil of darkness, contemplating their options._

_Only there weren’t any._

_“We could try to, you know, not go through entirely? Just poke our heads in and sneak a peek?” Buffy tentatively suggested, but was cut off harshly._

_“Absolutely not! Only over my dead body. The dusty kind of dead.”_

_“I knew there had to be an upside,” she quipped, not fazed at all by the glare he gave her. She was too relieved that for now, the panic had subsided enough to feel a bit safer for the moment. She knew whom she owed this smidgen of safety to, as well as maybe even her life. It wasn’t exactly the first time that had happened; in fighting together they had saved each other’s lives on more than one occasion and they were both pretty much used to it. The feeling of safety around him wasn’t that new for her either, even though she would never admit it. He still knew; he also knew that she needed to make her jokes about wanting nothing more than to stake him to muster some of her courage. It was part of her disguise. She had shown fear, downright panicked, asked for him not to leave her. Begged for his help even. If she needed the quips to find her footing again, he would be perfectly content to give it to her; as long as she stayed out of that evilness behind the veil from head to toe. Quipping Buffy was just fine by him._

_He hadn’t liked seeing her in fear anyway._

_She sighed. “Fine, no peek. What about you carrying me through the portal?”_

_He arched an eyebrow. “What, you think the soddin’ portal is just not into human feet?”_

_“It’s worth a try. Me wrapped into the stinkiness of your duster - it might not recognize me as the Slayer.”_

_“My duster doesn’t smell,” he replied indignantly._

_“Does too. All whiskey and smoke, and, and…Spike all over.” She frowned slightly, because it was supposed to sound disgusted, but she knew it came out differently, and he had to suppress an amused grin. She hadn’t been that way toward him since she had been invisible, and before that…when they had been out together, after her Retail Hours that Wouldn’t End at the Magic Box. And then she had been drunk._

_He didn’t want to risk her losing that spark of what he recognized as her fighting instinct and acted without thinking twice. He jumped to his feet and scooped her up in a fluent movement. Rushing directly toward the portal, they violently bounced back from it when they bumped into the barrier. His eyes went wide with surprise when he found himself back on the ground, sitting on his butt with Buffy splayed over him. “Wha…?”_

_He must have had a really funny expression on his face, because Buffy, initially disentangling herself and turning to watch up at him in righteous anger, suddenly began to snicker when she saw him. Although secretly pleased that he had brought a laugh out of her, even if not at all intended, he snorted, pretending to be in a huff. ”Oh brilliant! Yeah, that’s a good one, right, Slayer? Put the Big Bad on his arse like a toddler tripping over his feet. Care to tell me what’s so damn funny about it?”_

_“Aw, come on, Oh Evil One! It’s nothing extraordinary. You dumped on your ass is funny all in itself. And you totally left out the duster wrappage, that’s why it couldn’t work.” She grinned at him, blinking innocently. He grunted, but shrugged off his duster to do as she’d asked, gently enveloping her shoulders in it. She grabbed the lapels and shoved it over her head, giving him her best you’re-not-the-smartest-one-are-you look. Then she wrapped herself in the black leather, and although her face was now hidden, her small sniffing, inhaling his scent was not lost on him, and the faintest smile tugged up his lips. His hands came up, proceeding to enclose as much of her as possible in his duster, and then he scooped her up once again, slowly this time, careful not to let the coat slide open at the seams. Thus prepared he tried again, cautiously approaching the portal._

_He hadn’t believed for a second that it would be that easy; but when he felt the resistance of the threshold, he still was disappointed. He stepped back and sat her on her feet._

_“Sorry, luv,” he said and gingerly peeled her out of his duster, slipping into it himself. He eyed her warily, and he could see the hope leaking out of her, making room for the fear that slowly snuck back in. He gently tucked her hand in his, pulled her down to the ground again. It was easier to sit; easier for her to not give in to the urge of passing the veil. Easier for him to hold her back, too. To his surprise she huddled against him, hugging her legs tightly. She was clearly seeking the safety his closeness provided, and his arms encircled her on their own volition. He felt her slightly relax into him, and amidst all the craziness of the situation they were in, he still found himself reveling in the slice of happiness he felt at being able to get her to relax, in his arm no less._

_“We’ll find something, pet,” he whispered soothingly, his mouth close to her ear._

_“We could always wait for the others to find the portal and figure something out from outside, right? I mean, it’s still open, and they will come looking for me when I don’t show up all night.”_

_He inhaled deeply, well knowing that her hope was futile. Time didn’t pass by outside; for all he knew, they could sit here for all eternity. Not that this was the worst he could imagine, sitting here with her forever; but it was certainly not what she wanted. And it wouldn’t work anyway. They would have to eat at one point, since in here, they weren’t in a time vacuum. But he couldn’t destroy her hope; not yet. So he held back with that tidbit._

_“Yeah. We could do that,” he conceded quietly, tugging her a little closer to him._

_There was a moment of mutual silence, and he realized with a small pang of regret that it almost felt like the first weeks after she came back. When there was silent understanding between them that had gone awry with their first kiss. It made him consider digging a little into her head. Even if for now the subject of inquiry had changed, it was what he’d gone out tonight to find her for, after all. He just wasn’t sure if he was willing to destroy the comfortable silence so quickly._

_“Slayer?” he asked when curiosity eventually got the better of him, which, of course, was only a short while later._

_“What?”_

_“Why are you so scared?”_

_She turned to look at him for a brief moment, but then hid her face by turning away from him._

_“You were the one who told me there’s only evil in there. Who wouldn’t be afraid to end up in hell?”_

_He waited to hear if there was still more to come, but apparently there wasn’t. He thought about leaving it there, since she obviously wasn’t willing to talk about it, and she certainly wouldn’t appreciate being pushed by him. Then again, they hadn’t really anything else to do than talk. And he had the feeling that, if he could understand what scared her that much here, he maybe,_ maybe _would finally understand her a great deal better than before. Even if this was only a tiny chance, it was_ his _chance, and he was not going to waste it._

_And he had nothing to lose anyway. So he prodded a little._

_“True; but that’s not it, right?” He didn’t look at her; his words were pushing enough. Also, he felt her tensing without looking just fine._

_He gave her a few moments, and when she didn’t respond, he went on. “You were scared the second the portal opened.” His voice was soft, matching the touch of his thumb on her arm, a feathery caress both of them. “You thought it was heaven then.”_

_She remained silent for several minutes, but she didn’t jump up to get away from him, and she did not turn away either. She withdrew her arm from under his caressing hand, but she stayed right there, securely leaning against him._

_He waited._

_When she eventually spoke, her voice sounded raspy as if she hadn’t spoken for days. Yet, despite the despair underlying it, she managed to also give it a ring of disdain, and he wondered if it was a sentiment solely meant for him._

_“You wouldn’t understand.”_

_He held back a frustrated sigh. “Try me,” he said instead, and he was embarrassed about the desperation lacing his voice. God, why the bloody hell did she have to have the uncanny ability to turn him into a pathetic prat even without saying anything?_

_She must have heard it too, though, because she rolled her eyes and let out a small moan, telling loud and clear how much she didn’t want to do that at all._

_He didn’t expect her to answer, not really; but once more she surprised him. “It would be just another failure of mine,” she said, so quietly that he barely could hear the words. Because if he almost didn’t hear them, it was like almost not having said them at all. Which was the closest to being silent. He got that. “The ultimate failure.”_

_He looked at her, stunned._ Another _failure? If this was her attempt at an explanation, then she wasn’t being very successful, because he was more bewildered than ever._

_“Another…another failure…of yours?” he spluttered. “When have you ever…”_

_He was cut short by her angered voice. “I told you, you wouldn’t understand.” She wriggled out of his arm, jumped to her feet then, and he was too baffled to hold her back, forgetting about the temptation of the darkness for the moment. It registered half a minute later though, as he saw her drifting toward the veil; subtly in the beginning, not so subtly after a few moments. He, too, jumped up and caught her wrists, hauling her back._

_“Oh, Bollocks! You don’t get off that easily. You don’t get to throw me some cryptics like this and then refuse to explain it to me. What the bloody hell are you going on about? Why would you think you failed?”_

_“Because that’s all I’m doing lately!” She yelled at him now. The words tumbled out of her mouth, held back for too long to rein them in any longer, now that he’d heard her anyway. Could as well hit him with them; the least she could do to punish him for at first pushing cracks into her shell and then prying them wide open. “I'm failing because I'm_ not _supposed to hate the world I'm forced to live in, but I do. Because I'm_ not _supposed to hate my friends for bringing me back into it; but I do. I’m monumentally failing at_ not _hating them for expecting me to be grateful, to be okay, and most of all to be their hero. I’m failing at feeling the things I’m supposed to feel. At being forgiving. At being_ happy _already.”_

_As if to demonstrate how very much not happy she was, tears were streaming down her cheeks, and she was shaking so hard now that her knees almost buckled; but she didn’t stop listing all her failures. She couldn’t. Her truth was pouring and splashing out of her like the water of those damn broken pipes weeks ago; unstoppable._

_“I’m failing my mother, because I promised her I’d take care of Dawn, to love her like Mom loved me, but I don’t! I can’t love anymore! I’m failing Giles, because he trusted me to be able to handle things on my own, but it turns out I really can’t. I can’t handle_ anything _. Dammit, Spike, I’m not even a friend anymore! I don’t care about the others, and I’m going to the pain-in-the-ass vampire I hate for refuge from_ them _! I’m failing at being worthy to be alive again, because I don’t_ feel _like being alive! I’m fucking failing at being_ me _! Even though I am! I_ am _me! I didn’t come back…Oh God!”_

_Her knees finally gave out and she collapsed to the ground, as if someone had pulled her spine out of her; her shoulders sagging, her head sinking until it touched the floor. She lay completely still then, like a pile of clothes._

_Spike stood shell-shocked. His hands holding her wrists had jerked away from her at one point, almost scared by her outburst._

_Oh God. He had done her so wrong._

_He had known she was miserable because she’d turned to him, kissed him, jumped his bones. But he’d thought her refusal to accept what she did was only due to her inability to accept that she felt drawn to his darkness, to accept the darkness within herself. When in reality a big chunk of her problem was that she felt guilty for seeking_ him _out instead of her friends, because he’d been kind and gentle when her friends had come over her like a thunderstorm. Because he’d listened when her friends had felt the need for her gratefulness. Because her friends expected her to be as she always had been when he was just there, glad to be where she was._

_She felt guilty for resenting them when she was expected to be glad to be brought back, for hating them when she should love them. Because, of course, despite what she’d just said, she also_ did _love them. Even if she couldn’t quite feel it right now, she_ knew _she did. She just couldn’t stop hating what they did to her._

_She felt like living in hell and her twisted brain turned it into something she was responsible for, accused herself for feeling miserable._

_He felt that there was still something lost on him, something he still couldn’t grasp. But even without that missing piece his heart broke for her, just like the day she’d told him she was ripped out of heaven. To the hell she had to live in she had added her own hell of guilt. And when all she was striving for was a little bit of light, he had tried to pull her even deeper into the darkness. And had pushed her to a much darker place than he ever imagined._

_He’d told himself that he did it to help her, that he was the one who should show her, who could make her see that the darkness felt good. That he helped her to feel better. It was easy to believe that when it fit right into what he so badly wanted. Now he couldn’t deny any longer that he’d been a selfish prick who’d shoved things around in his head long enough till they matched his desires._

_He stood wide eyed, frozen, and took her in, her form slumped to the ground, motionless; and some of her words rang in his mind again;_ I can’t love anymore! I’m failing at being worthy to be alive again, because I don’t _feel_ like being alive!

_And then it slowly began to sink in._

I touch the fire and it freezes me. This isn’t real, but I just want to feel. _She’d told him. But he’d been too mesmerized by the notion that she’d turned to him again, that she’d kissed him, that she made him feeling alive again after such a long time of being dead, that he hadn’t realized that she was seeking the same thing. He just hadn’t cared to listen closely enough._ You are dead inside! You can't feel anything real! _It hadn’t been him she’d yelled about that night, he’d felt that. But he hadn’t gotten it then that she was referring to herself. That she was the one who couldn’t feel anything real, even though she’d told him before._

_And instead of helping her feel alive again not only with her body, he’d pressed and pushed and torn at her. He was no better than her friends._

_A hot wave of guilt and regret and shame washed though him; all he’d done was add fuel to the flames. He’d wanted to help, and he’d made it worse._

_Christ. What had he done?_

_And then he heard more words gushing out from under the heap that was her, muffled, but piercing his ears nonetheless; and if he had thought his heart had broken for her before, he knew better now. Now he felt it splintering into thousands of tiny little pieces._

_“I wanted to go back to heaven so badly. I feel its pull ever since I…since they brought me here. Nothing but that, actually.” A bitter laugh gurgled out of her. “But I resisted, because, how could I be so weak, so selfish, and disappoint all of them? Dismiss my duty as slayer? Just go away, only because I didn’t like it in this world? But here…it’s so strong here, Spike. And I’m so terribly afraid that I can’t resist any longer and in the end I’ll still fail them…”_

_She had sacrificed her supposed shot at happiness, day after day, minute after bleedin’ minute. Fighting against the temptation, until there was nothing left. Alone. For her duty and the happiness of those who had stolen it from her. Had been strong, as everyone always expected her to be. And the weight on her shoulders, all those expectations she thought she had to measure up to, but couldn’t, the doubts she had about herself were about to eventually be too much, to break her like a twig._

_Fear gripped his heart when he thought about what she maybe would’ve considered as a real help all those weeks. He knew that he would’ve failed her anyway, because even if he’d known, he would’ve never encouraged her to let go, no matter how strongly she wished for that kind of help._

_But he could’ve been there for her differently._

_He wasn’t aware that the same kind of tears were running over his shocked face as over hers when he fell to his knees. Trembling hands hesitantly reached for her, hovering over her still form, crumbled on the ground in a lifeless heap. ”Buffy…” He wasn’t even sure if he’d really said it. She didn’t react, so maybe he hadn’t. His fingertips tentatively touched her, so lightly that he didn’t know whether or not she felt it. Palms followed fingers, always waiting for the inevitable fist connecting with his face; and when she still didn’t move, he shifted a little closer first, gliding down then, curling his body around her, his arms encircling her. Giving her shelter with his whole self._

_It was when life came back into her. It started with a soft tremble, and within seconds it erupted to body shaking sobs._

_She cried for a long time, whimpering, howling, sobbing. He couldn’t remember that he’d ever witnessed someone crying like that, and he knew it was the crying she’d held in for months bursting out now._

_He felt incredibly helpless. All he could do was be there now, and it didn’t by far feel sufficient; felt suspiciously like too little, too late. He pressed his face into her hair, holding her, trying to surround as much of her as possible, until finally the crying ceased._

_“I’m so sorry.”_

_And he was. The evil vampire, well known throughout the supernatural world for ruthlessness, mayhem and slaughter, felt so sorry for the girl in his arms that his guts churned. For what he had done to her and for what he hadn’t; for what she was going through; for her having friends that were so smart that they found a way to bring her back, but not smart enough to know from where. For not being the man she’d needed him to be, but only the monster instead. Most of all he was sorry for the one time she had trusted him, and he had failed her. Had he not failed her that night, she wouldn’t have had to jump._

_It was the mess he’d made that she had to live through now, and he was so incredibly sorry._

_He said it so quietly that he didn’t know if she’d heard it._

_It didn’t matter. He’d needed to say it._

 


	3. Do not go gentle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the shortest chapter, the only one with less than 4,000 words.  
> Thanks for the kudos!  
> Next chapter will be up tpomorrow.

**Chapter 3**

**Do not go gentle**

_(Title from a poem by Dylan Thomas)_

 

_They lay like this for a long while. She never moved, apart from the shaking that was raging through her, but he felt her gradually calming a bit; until a while after the crying had come to an end, the trembling finally faded, too. When he just started wondering whether she was still awake she uncurled herself, but didn’t disentangle from his arms. Her head half buried in the crook of his shoulder, her arm resting on his chest, if close to herself, she relaxed against him._

_They had never lain like that before, snuggled together. He could’ve stayed that way forever. He didn’t fool himself though; he knew it would be over the second they’d be out of here. But no matter how it had come to it, he was determined to savor every minute while it lasted._

_It took a long while for her to speak again, and when she did, he was oddly relieved._

_“Spike?”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“Thank you.”_

_He tilted his head aside to look at her. “For what?”_

_She swallowed, well aware that she moved in unknown fields here. “For…for staying.”_

_She was grateful that he stayed with her, when in fact he was willing to die for her. He tried to speak past the lump that had built in his throat. “I wouldn’t leave you alone here. You know that.”_

_“I guess I do,” she admitted quietly. “It’s more than that, though. You are…you are here,_ with _me. And that is…” She trailed off, apparently not knowing how to go on._

_He still understood._

_He didn’t answer immediately. Then he just shrugged._

_“I love you.”_

_It was all there was to say, really._

_She didn’t reply._

_For the first time ever, she didn’t object._

_He smiled._

_**************************************_

_She fell asleep in his arms._

_That was another first. They had spent more than one night together, had slept side by side, but never had she allowed them to even touch while sleeping._

_It had hurt him, but he had accepted her rules, too glad about getting that much at all._

_But this time, she slept in his arms, and he barely dared to move._

_At first he only marveled in the feeling of her body snuggled against his, gladly relived the words she’d spoken to him, the way she‘d said them. The gentleness of her voice._

_And then she hadn’t objected. She had, for the first time, accepted that he loved her. He hoped that meant that she no longer denied him the capability of feeling something so human._

_It maybe even meant she no longer saw him as a thing. Not entirely, anyway._

_That was huge._

_He wasn’t sure what had changed her mind, though. Whether it was something he had done or not, he didn’t know. He knew, however, that he desperately wanted to preserve her view of him once they were out again. He was aware of course that in situations like this, people tended to alienate with their enemies. Stockholm Syndrome or some rot. And even if she certainly didn’t see him as her enemy any longer, it was still comparable. Yet, he didn’t care where it came from, as long as it didn’t disappear in the real world._

_It felt too good to have her seeing him not only as evil vampire with a muzzle. Notwithstanding the fact that the muzzle didn’t take with her anyway._

_The thoughts of how everything might change again outside made him wonder how the hell they could get there. They couldn’t stay here forever, and it was pointless to wait for help from outside when the world outside stood still._

_Thus the need to act lay upon them._

_But what could they do? They couldn’t go in either direction. In one direction there was hell; in the other one was a barrier._

_Only that wasn’t exactly true._

_There was a barrier alright, but only for her._

I won’t leave you alone.

_Yeah, but what if it was their only chance?_

You are…you are here, _with_ me. And that is…

_Bugger!_

_How could he even think of leaving her in here, after that?_

_How the bloody hell could he not?_

_As long as they were both in here, nothing would ever change. They couldn’t go in either direction together._

_They had to separate._

_She couldn’t go out, and he sure as hell wouldn’t let her go in._

_There was only one option left._

_He had to go alone._

_Leave her alone._

Thank you. For…for staying.

_He cringed, unknowingly pulled her a little closer, as if to reassure both of them that he wouldn’t do that. But he already knew better._

_To distract himself he focused on what he would do once he’d be outside. Go to Tara, since Red had sworn off the magic, get her to do a spell to lift the barrier. If she could find a spell for that._

_If they even found the portal. What if it closed after he passed through? Would they ever find it again? Or worse, what if it didn’t close after him? From her perspective, he’d be stuck in time like the others were and couldn’t do a thing. And what would happen to Buffy when he wasn’t with her?_

_The image of the demon that had pushed them inside popped up in his mind. He had the distinct feeling that he knew what kind of demon it was. He searched his memory and eventually figured it out, and all of a sudden, he knew a lot more. And slowly, while his fingers wandered the familiar path to pat on his duster pocket, a plan began to develop in his mind._

He looks down at her again, his eyes skimming over her bound ankles, skipping to her bound wrists; then he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. He is thoroughly surprised that she hasn’t woken up while he tied her; she must have been pretty worn out. He tilts his head and watches her, her face so peaceful in her dreamless sleep, looking so young. He rarely sees her that way, as the young girl she is supposed to be; that she actually is. But tonight, after she fell apart in his arms, he finds it hard to see her as anything but the vulnerable human girl, and he’s glad that she let him see this well-hidden side of hers.

Pulling her out of that peaceful place she currently is in and confronting her with the cold reality frightens him more than he expected. He knows he can’t let her sleep when he’ll leave; he can’t let her wake up to being alone, let alone bound, without any explanation.

He sighs. He’s not ready yet for her reaction. He lies down beside her, slips his arm under her sleeping form and pulls her close. She stirs, and he holds his breath, hoping for a small postponement. Alas, no such luck.

He can feel the second it registers that something isn’t right. Her eyes pop open and she moves her hands up to get a look on them. She sees the makeshift ties on her wrists, fabric straps he obviously tore his shirt into, and she reels back, almost violently wriggling out of his embrace.

“What the…Spike?”

Here it goes.

He winces. “I’m sorry, luv, I had to.” She will understand, once he explained it, right? But when he sees her expression change, his stomach drops. He sees her eyes go cold, betrayal flashing through, quickly changing into disdain. When she speaks, he suddenly feels as cold as her eyes look.

“I knew I couldn’t trust you.”

There’s no accusation in her voice, no anger, no sorrow either; just plain conviction.

It’s what makes something in him snap. Everything that had been there before, her gratefulness, her honesty, the look she gave him, her warmth in his arms - everything fades to nothing. As if never having been there at all. Granted, she doesn’t know the reason for him binding her, but there isn’t even a slice of benefit of the doubt, after everything they shared before she slept. He pushes himself on his elbows, watches her for a few seconds, but there’s nothing left in her eyes.

Hot fury spreads out all over his body, coverage for stinging disappointment. His hands curl to fists, and for a moment he feels the urge to hit her, punch her just like she had punched him with her words; again. He curses himself for being so damn vulnerable to her words. And for falling into the hope trap again and again. He clenches his jaw; he won’t give into the desire to hurt her back, though, because there’s this other part in him that never wants to hurt her, no matter what she’s doing to him. Bloody ponce that part; but strong right now, what with the knowledge that he has to leave her like that, alone, bound, scared. He sits up, rises to his feet then. Stepping a few yards away from her, he brings some much needed distance between them. Slowly he breathes in and out to calm down, to push the pain aside. He doesn’t hit her, but he can’t suppress a bitter comment. “Of course you knew,” he snarls. “That’s what dead, evil things do after all. Wouldn’t want to burst your bubble, honey.”

He feels her hesitating a second, but then she snaps back. “What did you expect? You tied me up, Spike. Last time you had me in shackles, you set your psycho ex on me to kill me! So forgive me if my trust in you isn’t deep enough to not expect a poetry reading when I awake tied up on the doorstep of a hell dimension.”

“Oh, ‘s that so?” He raises his scarred eyebrow at her, and then he smirks. He knows it’s a highly sensitive point to rub under her nose now, but he’s still much too pissed off to care even remotely. “I seem to remember a different scenario of the last time I had you in shackles.” He wants to savor her indignation, letting the smirk widen on his face at the success his little stab is driving home; yet he can’t. He sees familiar disgust flashing in her eyes, and he instantly mentally kicks himself for saying this. It had been a good memory for him, her letting him use those handcuffs on her; and his stupid mouth, which never could wait for approval of his brain, had to turn it into something she would want to forget as soon as possible.

“You’re a pig, Spike. Go ahead; remind me of why I couldn’t be your girl.”

Sod it; she had wanted to forget about it anyway.

He growls in annoyance; that’s not what he wanted, fighting with her now. Rile her up a bit to ease the pain of her distrust, yeah. But fighting her? Not so much. Not with what they had just before, even less when he has to leave her in here where God knows what could happen to her.

He suddenly realizes that he still needs to explain to her why she’s bound. He sighs; it won’t get any easier to tell her, so he cuts to the chase. “Look, I needed to restrain you, because I can’t hold you back from the veil any longer. I’ll go get help outside.”

“You go out?” There’s something in her voice now that makes him looking closer at her; his gaze softens when he recognizes the same fear in her face like earlier. “Why don’t we wait for someone to find us? They will look for me when I don’t show up in the morning, and the portal is still open!”

His eyes close for a second in frustration; he hates that, destroying her hopes. “Slayer. Look outside. Time has stopped there. Reckon it moves on once I go through.” He sees her eyes latching onto the still dark cemetery, and then realization dawns on her face. She lets out an exasperated sigh and turns her head, away from the devastating view.

“I’ll come back. I promise,” he says softly, but she just snorts.

“Yeah. Just like you promised not to leave me alone.”

He stares at her incredulously. “You don’t believe me?” he asks, new hurt coloring his voice. When she just shrugs, it turns into anger. “You’re off your rocker if you think I could let you rot in here. Did you forget about the part where I said I loved you?” He waits a beat, gives her the opportunity to deny not believing in his return; when she doesn’t, he flinches slightly, as if slapped in the face. “You really think I could do that to you.” He snorts disgustedly, not really knowing who it is he’s disgusted with, her or himself. The mixture of pain and anger, for the second time within a few minutes, lets his voice turn harder than he wanted. “I guess, this time you just _have_ to trust me.”

“How could I?” she yells, “Dammit, Spike, you _tied me up_!”

His eyes flicker to her wrists, then back to her face. “Told you, I had to. I’m sorry.”

She squirms a little, feels the soft fabric give way slightly. “You know how ridiculous a try that is. I’ll be free in no time.”

Spike kneels beside her, fingers the ties around her wrist, concern clouding his eyes. “I know. It’ll slow you down a tad, though.” He searches her eyes, willing her to understand what he’s about to say next. “See, it’s more…symbolically.” His hands move away from her wrists now, taking her hands into his. She tries to pull back, but he doesn’t let her. He needs her with him for this moment; it depends so much on this. “Listen, Slayer. There are people out there who will do everything to get you back.” He ignores her snort and goes on emphatically. “But you have to stay away from the darkness. Once you passed through…I reckon it will be a lot harder to get to you.” He swallows at the thought. _If possible at all_ … “Those ties are meant to remind you to stay strong. If not for yourself, then for those who love you.” He shudders at the thought of losing her; then he realizes that her face has gone harder at his last plea. He remembers her outburst earlier, and as fear grips his heart, his voice becomes urging. “I know you’ve been strong for them for too long. But believe me on this one, you don’t want to be in there. And I know you, pet. You won’t be strong on your behalf. But you’ll do it for them. For Dawn.” _I don’t care who you do it for, just bloody do it. Because I need you alive. Please_. “Not because you don’t want to fail them, but because you love them.”

He watches her, tries to read her face, but she keeps all emotions out. He heaves a frustrated sigh. He’s pretty sure that she keeps them not only out of her face, and he doesn’t know if she is even listening. He goes on anyway, hoping she understands what he says.

“Look, I think I know where we are.” A flicker of hope scurries over her face; so she _is_ listening. “I remembered that demon while you slept. It’s a Mala’hla demon, and I’m pretty sure that this is a dimension they created for punishing those who don’t behave as expected. As far as I know there’s always a demon guard holding the delinquent on a magic leash, making sure they don’t get away until it’s shoved into the everlasting darkness beyond the veil. It’s why the portal stays open; it closes as soon as the guarding demon left it. Which in our case – will be me.” His gaze drops down for a second before his eyes search hers, his voice getting a note of urgency now. “Humans aren’t supposed to be here, which is why you can _not_ go further. You wouldn’t survive for long.” He pauses, but she doesn’t dignify him with a response or even so much as a glance. He rolls his eyes. “Which is also why you can’t pass through the portal. But I think I found a way. I only have to…take care of something, and then I’ll come back and get you.”

“Great. After unsuccessfully trying for years to get rid of you, you choose _now_ to leave me alone? Tied up no less, ready to be attacked by anyone who wants to? Who says that this Mahatma demon doesn’t come back once you’re gone? I can’t even defend myself like that.”

“I don’t think he will.” Oh God, he so hopes he’s right with this…”I think he doesn’t care what’s happening to you; he only wanted you out of the way. I’m here merely by mistake, because I was there when the thing opened.” He scoots a little closer, gently cups her face with one hand, locking their eyes. “I’m so sorry I have to leave you here, pet. Please believe me when I say I’d much prefer to take you with me, but it doesn’t work that way. You can’t get out…like this. But I have a plan.” He ignores her dismissive grunt. “I’ll come back as soon as I can, and then I’ll get you out of here. I promise.” His eyes are glued to hers, pleading for understanding, forgiveness maybe. But he knows instantly that he’ll be granted none of those when he sees her frightened face harden, shutting out once again every emotion she dared to let in. He straightens a little in anticipation of her answer, but when it comes, it hits him harder than any punch ever could.

“Yeah, and don’t we know how much your promise is worth.”

He freezes. He knows what she refers to. _To the end of the world_. An expression flits over her face, almost as if she’s shocked about what she just said. She opens her mouth, but he doesn’t give her the time to say more.

He doesn’t think that he can bear to hear it.

He says just one fierce word to stop her. “No.”

He jumps up and storms to the portal. He halts briefly, turns around and gives her a long glance. He sees her eyes boring into him, glaring as if he’s about to hurt her and she prepares herself for fending him off. And then he suddenly gets it.

That’s exactly what this is. As much as he never intended to, he _is_ hurting her. He leaves her. That’s about the worst thing that could happen to her right now. She trusted him. She even begged him to stay. He promised, and she rewarded him with believing in his love for her.

And then he goes and breaks the promise. Leaves her alone when she needs him most. Just like so many people in her life left her when she needed them.

No wonder she lashes out.

He wants nothing more than rushing back to her, swoop her in his arms and never let go again. But he can’t. He has to go; it’s the only way, he knows that.

Still; he can’t leave her like that. He closes the small gap between them and sinks to his knees again. His hand goes up, back to her face where it laid before. He can see it in her eyes; she knows he still leaves. She tries to look challenging, but the tears pooling in her eyes betray the lie.

“Buffy,” he says softly, and then he pauses. There’s so much he wants to say that he doesn’t know where to start. He swallows, fights tears on his own. “Buffy, I’ll come back for you, believe me. Please.”

That’s all he gets out in the end. Finally, after a long while, he sees her eyes soften a fraction. She nods, almost imperceptibly. He takes a deep breath and rises, approaching the portal again. At the same place as before he stops and turns his head toward her. “Don’t go in there.” She doesn’t nod this time, but he can read her look. _I can’t promise, but I’ll try_. So he nods instead and proceeds to go through the portal.

He’s almost through when he hears her softly calling for him.

“Spike?”

He turns again, tilting his head aside questioningly. “Yeah?”

She glares at him. “Tying me up like this…you know I’m gonna kick your ass when I’m free, right?”

A small smile graces his face. “Yeah, Slayer. ‘m countin’ on it.”

Then he turns and steps through the portal. The next second he’s disappeared, and, with a sizzle, so is the portal.

And Buffy is alone.

 

 


	4. Revelations

** Chapter 4 **

**Revelations**

 

 

She can’t believe he left her.

Not that she can’t understand why he did it. She’s not stupid. She knows it’s the only way to get her out of here. They could’ve waited for something to change until the cows came home. Had they both stayed here, Spike would’ve had to watch her wither and die, because the time outside may have stopped, but in here, she’s starting to get really hungry. And even more thirsty, she thinks, licking her lips that already begin to feel slightly dry.

Much worse than hunger and thirst though is the pull. That damn promise of peace, calling out for her with increasing urgency. It doesn’t help a bit that Spike told her it’s not what it pretends to be. Not because she doesn’t believe him; she does. She had been focused on the darkness luring her in, but she still had felt it, the shock of suddenly detecting something that jolted through him, just before he told her that it wasn’t heaven. She hadn’t seen his face then, but fright had radiated off him so forcefully that even in her distracted mind it had reached her. She could feel how he channeled all that new fear into holding her back, a fact that convinced her more than anything he could have said that he feared for _her_. With a pang she was reminded of the night in the alley; he was as scared to death of losing her then as he was here, and just like then he was determined to not let her go into perdition.

She’s pretty sure that he would’ve tried keeping her here even if it had been heaven, though. Even with everything he knows, she thinks he’s still selfish enough to refuse to let her go. He is a soulless vampire, after all, and she has an inkling of how much he mourned her loss. _147 days yesterday, uh…148 today; ‘cept today doesn’t count, does it…_ She can’t imagine that letting her have heaven back could ever be an option for Spike. Not as long as it meant that he’d lose her again. Then again… his demeanor _had_ changed when the fear she’d sensed in him had appeared. Only _then_ he’d gripped her tight on his own account, the fierce determination to keep her away from the darkness just then kicking in. Before, even after she’d told him what was happening to her, he had held her back mostly because he had seen how scared she was, because she _clung_ to him, because it was what _she_ wanted him to do.

Maybe, had this been heaven, he would’ve let her go had she really wanted to.

Maybe.

She wrenches her head away from the temptation, realizing, horrified, that she not only stared longingly into the dark, but was in fact trying to crawl closer. _Those ties are meant to remind you to stay strong_ …Spike’s voice still resonates in her mind, soft but urgent. Without thinking twice, driven only by the memory of his pleading eyes, she rolls on her side, turning her back to the veil. Jerking her bound limbs forward, wriggling and pulling herself away from it, she gradually increases the distance between herself and the danger zone. When she feels the pull slightly lessen, she lets herself fall on her back, breathing heavily.

It’s much harder to resist, now that he’s gone.

God, she can’t believe he really left her.

She tries not to get pissed, but it’s hard. Because, as much as she doesn’t like that, she kinda needs him now. Which is exactly what makes her so pissed. She’s the freaking Slayer. She doesn’t need a vampire, for God’s sake.

Except she does.

Only to hold her back from the darkness, of course. But oddly enough, that’s not entirely true.

And she can’t even begin to express how much _that_ pisses her off.

And who’s to say that it was true that this Mahatma demon thingy wanted _her_ out of the way anyway? Spike wasn’t very welcome in the Sunnydale Demon Community either since he killed so many of its members lately. Didn’t he say himself this was a dimension created to punish demons? That humans weren’t even supposed to be here? Maybe _her_ being here was just a matter of wrong place, wrong time; maybe _he_ had been the one who should’ve been shoved in here all by himself, and the portal would’ve closed after him since there wasn’t a demon guard with him. Then it would be _his_ fault that she was trapped. Because he had to start that stupid fight with her, and no, she was not willing to accept that she was the one who started the fight in the first place. Had he gone away like she wanted, she wouldn’t have had to punch him, right? God, she hates him, and it’s all his fault.

Of course, even if he _had_ been the target, she could hardly hold him responsible, but she pushes that thought aside. She prefers to blame him rather than a nameless demon; makes it easier to stay mad at him.

And she wants to stay mad at him. Because otherwise her mind would inevitably drift to the memory of his body curled around hers earlier.

She didn’t have a breakdown like that since the night after she slept with Angel and had unknowingly turned him into Angelus. Even when her mom died, the night Dawn had tried to bring her back, she hadn’t cried like today.

Today she came undone. And he was there. He didn’t pat her shoulder, didn’t say any platitudes, no ‘there, there’, no ‘it’s gonna be okay’; nothing. He just silently held her, at a total loss for words, because there weren’t any. Was all around her, let her feel that she wasn’t alone, shielded her from the world. She can’t remember when she ever before had felt that protected, that _safe_.

If she’s honest with herself she has to admit that he was the reason she fell apart in the first place. Had he not offered her shelter, she would’ve reined it in as usual. But when she felt his trembling hands on her, felt that his cheeks were wet from tears he cried for _her_ because he understood, felt him gliding beside her, taking her in, giving her all of him, the walls inside crumbled, unleashing everything she carefully had hidden behind them all those months.

She had let out so much of her pain, of herself then; had unloaded it on him, and he had taken it all. And then he had said he was sorry.

He was sorry. The one person who, no matter how badly she treated him, had done nothing than try to be there for her, from the day when she came back. She never wanted to acknowledge that, but right now she can’t pretend any longer not to see. He might have made terrible mistakes in the process, but he tried.

Because he loves her.

The moments he held her, the moments she let him really show her for the first time, she suddenly knew. It was almost palpable then, a feeling so strong, coming from him, washing over her like a tidal wave. It isn’t a weird kind of obsession, at least not anymore. He loves her, just as he always has claimed; only she has never believed him.

A myriad of images flush her mind, and many of them make her wince. To say he tried seems suddenly the understatement of the century. In typical relentless Spike manner he threw everything he had into the fray time and again, some of his actions just now understandable for what they were.

There was the night he came to kill her because she had mortified him in the worst way, and stayed to console her instead. That was the night she had, for the first time, felt him lifting some of the weight from her shoulders, had found some peace with him, if only for the moment. But of course she’d never admitted that, not even to herself.

He helped her with those demons Tara had accidently rendered invisible and she never stopped to wonder why. He then hit the witch, putting up with the inevitable migraine if he was right, which he knew he was. He did it to help, even if he really didn’t care about Tara. For her.

She remembers the night Anya’s Troll-ex had wreaked havoc in the Bronze; he refrained from taking advantage of the victims, tried to make the survivors more comfortable instead. She was righteously disgusted by the mere thought of what he’d decided _not_ to do, and him expecting to get credit for his restraint; but she didn’t see it as what it was; that he did it to please her, because he thought that was what was expected from people who did the right thing. She humiliated him because she failed to see not only how difficult it must have been to abstain from the fresh blood all around him, but also how difficult it was for him to do the right thing without having a moral compass on his own helping him, depending only on his observations. That he literally had no clue to the right behavior but tried it anyway.

She hadn’t known that he really deserved to get credit.

Later he protected Dawn before he even knew that she wasn’t just her annoying brat kid sister. He didn't hesitate for a second when she came barging in, asking him to protect her mother and her sister, although she had spat in his face that she never needed him just the night before.

Not to mention that he decided to be willing to sacrifice his life for Dawn after he knew what she was.

He did all this only for her. Because he loved her.

One could still think he did it to get in her pants. But even in those days, she knew better. _I couldn’t live, her bein’ in that much pain. Let Glory kill me first._ He hadn’t even known whom he told that.

And then he stayed when she was gone, helped the others in their fight against evil, against the very thing he was supposed to be himself - he’d have _loved_ to be himself - but had given up on at her behalf. If he really had wanted the chip out, he surely would’ve found a way. Instead he stayed and kept protecting Dawn, providing a kind of comfort no one else could, because they both knew that either of them felt guilty for her death. And he clearly didn’t do it to get some reward, because the only reward he could’ve cared for couldn’t be given anymore. She was dead.

He did it because he loved her even beyond death.

How could she have been so blind?

Sure, he still wasn’t good; not in the literal sense. He didn’t do those things because they were right, and she doesn’t doubt for a second that one day, he would’ve reverted to his evil self. But that doesn’t diminish the fact that he _had_ changed, just like he’d always told her he could. Had felt enough love and guilt to help fight the good fight, help protect Dawn, even after her death. Emotions she never believed a soulless being could harbor. Didn’t want to believe.

She lets out an anguished groan when the images in her head change their tune, when they begin to remind her of the way she had responded to him. _I know that I’m a monster. But you treat me like a man_. She snorts disgustedly. Yeah, she kinda did, for a very brief period of time. Right up to their first kiss. But then…

She didn’t treat him like a monster then. She didn’t even dignify him with that small favor. She took from him whatever he offered her, whatever she needed, and then stomped him into the ground like the piece of dirt she felt herself to be. Hurled her disgust and her hatred on him, anything she could get a hold on to humiliate him. Again and again.

And he held still, just like he did in the alley, while the hurt burnt in his eyes; let her do this, because he thought it was what she needed. Because he thought it would help her. And because he still got more from her than he ever had believed he would get; the crumb he had once begged her for. And during all those months, his love never once wavered. No matter how badly she behaved toward him, he continued trying. Trying now to figure her out, to find a way to help her feel better, because he of all people was the one who looked through her charade, saw how miserable she still was. It wasn’t his fault that he just couldn’t understand her. She never gave him any chance to understand, because she didn’t want anybody to find out what she really needed. Because no one would give it to her anyway.

Heaven.

And now that he knows just how much her entire being still yearns to be there again, he left her here, the one thing she longs for seemingly close at hand and yet so far out of reach, because he said she couldn’t go there. She kicks her heels into the ground for lack of possibility to throw her fists into a punching sack. She really, really wants to kill something right now; instead she kicks again, rams her elbows into the dirt beneath her, at first one, then the other. Her head follows, and for a moment she relishes the pain erupting under her skull, but sadly it’s fleeting.

She can’t believe he left her.

Not now, not after everything she just revealed to him. He should have stayed, helping her figure out how to deal with what she just told him; never mind that she never would’ve allowed him to even try. Should’ve helped her at least staying here then, not giving in to the temptation of the darkness.

Because, oh God, she is so close again.

Unconsciously she’s been crawling toward the veil again, following the siren’s song, not caring what he told her she’ll find there. It sounds so good, the song; so peaceful, bell-like, happy. Only a few feet separate her now from the beauty she is promised. She feels herself drifting closer and closer, the movements easy, no obstacles to fight against.

With all the power she has left she focuses on the one thing she dares to rely on to find the strength to resist. His face, conjured up in her mind’s eye, looking at her with so much warmth a soulless vampire shouldn’t be able to convey with his eyes, pleading her to stay strong. Her eyes flicker down to the ties at her wrists, red ties made from his shirt, the only thing he left behind for her to hold on to _. I’ll come back for you, believe me_. She believes him.

Because she knows now.

She wriggles back to where the portal has been, panting from the effort, halting every now and then to look at her wrists. He wanted the ties to remind her to stay strong for her loved ones, expected her to want it for them.

He was wrong. She had been strong for her friends too long to find the strength in her now to do it for them. No, she wants to give _him_ something he deserves to get from her, for all the times he was there for her without getting anything in return. The least she can do is give him an apology, and _that_ is what she is fighting for.

When she feels she has come far enough, she lets herself collapse into a lifeless heap, curled up on one side, her back to the veil, the only visible movement being the rising and falling of her chest.

She can’t believe she let him leave.

 

                                   **************************************

 

His eyes glued to the mouse, he watches it racing across the grave, surrounding the headstone and disappearing behind it.

Seeing this is all Spike needs to know that the portal has closed. He still turns, staring at the place it has been just seconds ago. The place where Buffy has been, only a few yards away from him.

It was just a small step. In reality it made the difference between being in two very different worlds; the one with her in it, the one without.

He grunts angrily, because he is in the wrong world now.

He feels a blinding despair sneaking up on him, tackling him with full force then, creeping through his veins, paralyzing him.

Until her face appears before his closed eyes; her eyes casting him daggers, yet believing him to come back for her. _You know I’m gonna kick your ass when I’m free, right?_

Against everything she firmly believes, she trusts him to do this right. It’s what finally propels him into motion; the knowledge that he has to fulfill his promise this time. Throwing a last glance at the portal-that-ceased-to-be, he turns on his heels and rushes to the one person from whom he hopes to get the help he needs.

Squinting up to the moon he tries to assess what time it is. Then he remembers; it had been still early, about 10 p.m. Buffy was patrolling when they met, and time hasn’t gone by here. Chances are Anya’s still in the Magic Box.

He stuffs his hand into the pocket, exhaling in relief when his fingers close around the small paper. He’ll need it now. But first he needs to see the ex-demon. If anybody can help him now, it’s her.

Without a glance back he strides toward the exit of the cemetery, more and more picking up the pace the closer he gets to the shop until he’s almost running. He knows that a few minutes in no way will make any difference with what he plans to do, but he can’t help it. He wants to get the show on the road as soon as possible.

For once luck is on his side; there’s still light in the Magic Box, and through the window he can see Anya behind the counter, the gleam in her eyes telling him that she’s doing what she likes best; counting money. He tries to push the door open, and when it refuses to obey, he quietly knocks against it, moving aside to the window again to show himself. Anya’s head swivels up, watching with dismay the intruder who dares to disturb her in this moment of happiness. When she recognizes Spike, her frown smooths a little, and something akin to a smile appears on her face.

Spike kinda likes the girl. Her situation is not so unlike his; although accepted in the inner circle, she’s not an intrinsic part of it, a Scooby only by default because she’s Xander’s girlfriend. But none of them really acknowledges how valuable her knowledge of the demon world is for them; they never ask her for information, merely accept it when she offers, but always with a wrinkle of their noses, put off about the way she gained it. Like him she speaks her mind, not holding back with her opinion, even if it’s not popular. And like him, she’s been thrown into this life with humans, trying to adapt as best as she can, but not the least bit regretting her murderous past.

She walks over, and just seconds after knocking he hears the key turning. The door opens wide and Anya steps aside to let him in, closing the door behind him. “Wow. Whose parade did you rain on?”

“Huh?” He turns to watch her, trying to figure out what she’s talking about. Following her eyes scanning his face, he remembers the bruises probably still coloring his skin in all shades of a rainbow. “Oh. Yeah, well…” He ignores her questioning gaze and heads straight to the book shelves. “What do you know about Mala’hla demons?”

Anya turns the key to lock the door and walks after him. Without hesitation she pulls an old, leather bound volume from the shelf and flips through the pages until she finds what she was looking for. She shows him a drawing, and when he nods she lays it on the table, skimming over the text while talking. “I never met one myself, and I must say I’m not too sad about it. They are mostly just foot soldiers, doing the dirty work for their feudal lords. Not really evil because they’re much too stupid. But dangerous nonetheless, because they’d do about everything they are ordered to without questioning it, and their leaders rarely have good intentions. Very strong, as in _really_ very strong. Not often encountered in our world; they inhabit several dimensions they fit in better, they even built some themselves.” She eyes him warily. “Where do you know them from?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Had a little run-in with one of ’em a few decades ago. Didn’t like him.” Anya raises her brows, but he doesn’t elaborate, and she doesn’t prod.

“Why do you want to know?” she asks, curiosity finally getting the better of her.

“Time moves differently in their dimensions, right?” he sidesteps her question.

“Uh, that depends.” She sits on the edge of the table and takes a closer look at him now. “Did one of them do this to you?” Her tone is surprisingly compassionate, and he thinks that he must really look awful if even demon girl is sympathetic. He has no intentions to let her in on who turned his face into the picturesque landscape it apparently is and decides to fill her in on what is really going on instead.

“Did a lot worse.” He hears the slight edge in his voice, and he can tell that she heard it, too, because her eyes widen a fraction. A Spike that is beat up like that _and_ scared seems to be worrying enough to gain her full attention. He nearly chokes on the words he needs to say. “Slayer’s trapped in one of their dimensions.”

“What?” Anya’s face is paling. “But we just brought her back! All the effort would have been in vain if she died so soon again!” She flinches when a menacing growl deep in his throat fortifies the glare he shoots her, and hurries to add, “Her effort to adjust, I mean. Obviously.” She straightens her skirt in a nervous gesture, deciding to take refuge in distraction. “What do you mean anyway, trapped there? How could she even get there?”

He sits beside her, glancing at his boots, deliberately leaving out the less glorious details of their encounter. “We were…at the cemetery, and suddenly there was a portal around us, and one of those wankers shoved us through.”

“Both of you? But you’re here,” she perks up,” that means you could leave it, right?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” He lifts his head and stares at her angrily. ” _I_ could leave. _She_ couldn’t.”

“Oh.” He can practically see the truth dawning on her. “Because she’s human.”

“Yeah.”

“And you just left her …?” She cuts herself off as he glowers at her. “But how can she even…”

“Look, I have no bloody clue why she could get there. I reckon the bugger wanted her there, out of the way, ya know? And made it happen somehow. And now she can’t get out.” He pats impatiently at his duster pockets searching for his smokes. When he finds them, he pulls one out and puts it between his lips, flips the lighter then and inhales deeply, not caring the slightest about her disapproving glare. Anya wisely keeps her mouth shut.

Blowing the smoke out, he answers her unasked questions. “It’s their prison dimension, I reckon, because the soddin’ portal stayed open until I got out. Like a guard leading the prisoner in has to get out again after delivery. And she’s not completely in yet. There’s still kinda…a veil or something she would have to pass. Bloody antechamber of hell is what it is.” He laughs darkly and takes another drag. “Have to get her back before…” He trails off. He can’t tell her anything about the pull Buffy fights against; no one but him knows about how deeply she still desires to be back in heaven, and he intends to leave it that way. It’s her call to make.

“Spike.” Her voice is uncharacteristically soft now; she can imagine how hard it will be on him to understand that he has to let go again. She remembers well how it was, back in summer. “She _can’t_ get out. Only demons can pass through the portal into our world. She’s human.”

He half turns toward her and tilts his head aside. All anger and bitterness gone, he glances at her evenly. “That’s why I have to cloak her.”

Anya looks puzzled, and he can’t blame her. How could she understand?

“Willow can’t go in there to do a spell, Spike. She wouldn’t survive. Buffy is the Slayer, I’m guessing that’s the only reason she did.”

“But I can.”

She snorts. “Yeah, but you can’t do a spell like that. That’s powerful magic.”

He shrugs, but still feels eerily calm. “But I _could_ do a fusion spell. With the right crystal…”

She laughs at that disbelievingly. “Yeah, right. You can’t do a fusion spell with her. You’d need a…” She cuts herself short and stares at him wide eyed. She doesn’t say a word, just stares and stares, her lips opening and closing and opening again. Until she finally gets words out again. Kind of. “Wha…huh…who?”

He steadily meets her incredulous stare, without batting an eye. After a while, when it’s getting clear that she won’t say anything else, he decides to answer at least one of her question-like syllables. “I have an address.”

That brings her back to earth. “What, they sell these things now to the highest bidder?”

He just looks pointedly at her, not even dignifying that with an answer. They both fall silent for a while; then she turns to watch him again, her face twitching slightly as if not sure she really wants to see him, really wants an answer. “But…why would you do that?” Her voice is colored by the kind of blatant insecurity that makes her appear so much younger than she is even as a human, almost childlike.

He frowns at her, pulling his head back a fraction in disbelief. Then his gaze softens, and a tiny smile curls his lips. “What do you think?”

He couldn’t tell what she’s thinking, because her face is almost blank, all wide eyes and gaping mouth.

He takes a last drag, straightens and walks over to the counter. He stubs out the fag end in a silvery bowl that, hearing her hissing, he imagines is something magically valuable, and gets all businesslike. “Right then. I need you to fetch me the crystal and dig up the spell I’ll need, yeah? Oh, and I’ll need something to create the portal when I’m back.” He draws his brows together, thinking hard, trying to remember. “An orb of…G’hol? Not… not sure, though. But you’ll suss it out. You…What?” he snaps, his voice more than a little irritated when he catches her still staring at him. He’s not in the mood to talk about what he’s about to do; he wishes fiercely that he wouldn’t have needed to tell anyone, but it was necessary. Telling demon girl was by far the least evil; not one to talk feelings much herself, the possibility to get away with only the information she needs to know about was a relative safe bet. To her credit, he can tell that she’s trying not to make a big deal out of it, but what he intends to do still seems to throw her for a loop. She’s speechless, something he can’t remember having seen on her until now.

He turns away from her, hoping to lead her to other paths the conversation could take. “Look, you can put the things into my crypt, I’ll find them there when I come back.”

Yeah, doesn’t work. Of course; it’s Anya, after all. She’s not one to be distracted easily.

He feels her gaze burning on his back, and then it’s not only her gaze, but her tentatively outreaching hand on his shoulder. “Spike --”

Suddenly he feels rage leaping at him that he can’t fend off immediately. Doesn’t want to either, because it feels kinda good. Familiar. He flinches under her hand, shoves it off violently with a half spin of his shoulder and steps away from her; fleeing. “Sod off! I’m not trying to play hero to get into her pants! Not the hero type here, and I’m already…” He catches himself midsentence, belatedly remembering Buffy’s wish never to tell anyone about them, then rephrases. “Not rescuing the damsel in distress, wanted to do this anyway. So don’t even try to talk me out of it. I need this!” And the second he says it out loud, he knows it’s true. He’s so unsettled by the sudden realization that he almost misses Anya’s response.

“I’m not trying,” she calmly replies. When her words register, he stares at her unbelievingly. She shrugs, secure in herself again. Because she understands now. It’s one of those things one does, like she didn’t run away from the last apocalypse. “I’m not Xander; I don’t care if it gets you in her pants. And I don’t really care if you die trying either. And it brings Buffy back, which makes Xander happy without risking his own life. Happy Xander equals lots of sex, so you got my approval here.” He turns, tentatively daring to meet her eyes again, and she looks straight into his face. Only before she walks back to the table, bowing over the still open book again, he sees something flickering through her eyes. Something she didn’t say, silently acknowledging his unspoken wish not to express it. Which, seeing this is Anya, lets it ring in his ears even louder. It’s something suspiciously close to admiration.

He swallows, grateful for her blunt words as well as for keeping the rest to herself. He watches her flipping through the pages some more, closing the book with a thud, retrieving another volume from the bookshelf, browsing through. Then, without looking up, she says, “You can go now.”

“Anya…”

Now she does look up, and he’s surprised to find so much empathy on her features. “I won’t tell,” she says quietly, and he thinks how much more sensitive she is than the sodding Scoobies ever give her credit for.

He nods and walks toward the door. “There’s a chest on the left side of the crypt. Put it in the drawer.” His hand halfway to the doorknob, he pauses. “I’ll be away for a while. I’ll ask a friend of mine to take care of the crypt while I’m gone. Place like that empty for a while…” He leaves the sentence hanging in the air. He doesn’t want her to see how much he needs the knowledge to have a place to go to when he comes back; doesn’t want to think about it either.

There’s a moment of silence between them. Then she sniffles and raises her voice, her usual sarcastic tone back in it. “A friend of yours? He’s not gonna eat me, right?”

He turns once more toward her and gives her a small smile, and a mute ‘thank you’ travels to her, embedded in his glance. “No,” he says. And then he crosses the threshold and leaves.

 


	5. Journeys

** Chapter 5 **

**Journeys**

 

 

 

He shifts a little to the left side and then back, trying to get more comfortable in the hay he’s settled in.

He’s a right cliché, he thinks, travelling through the States in a goods wagon transporting haystacks of all things, but he won’t complain. Much. Better than travelling with the cattle it probably will be delivered to, and it kinda smells good. Still, he’s too pissed that he couldn’t use the DeSoto to really appreciate the luck he had. And he sadly can’t blame anyone but himself that the engine didn’t start; he hadn’t used it for so long, mostly had preferred to walk or, since the night Buffy came back, to take the motorcycle. He hasn’t driven the car for almost a year, he thinks, remembering the last time he had.

He winces at the memory of that night. Buffy had sat beside him in the car, and he had been so full of hope. Before all had gone down the drain with Dru being back, Buffy finding his shrine and him chaining her up, confessing his love for her.

Buffy had shut him out of her home that night, and he still can feel the pain of the moment he’d realized it.

He closes his eyes and sighs. God, what had he been thinking, trying to force her to an admission like that. But he was desperate, and he just hadn’t known better then. Still often doesn’t, and how could he? The experiences he can draw on are very limited; limited to a lunatic vamp no less. He knows he has gotten better at figuring out what was expected of him, has learned from his mistakes; but he’s still at a loss when it comes to helping her, making her feel better, no matter how hard he tries.

His hands find their way to his pocket, his fingertips stroking the paper, the feel of it eliciting a small smile. He doesn’t really need the paper anymore; the words have long since been etched into his mind, as often as he stared at them. But he likes to touch it, likes the security it provides him. He’s on his way now, and he knows it’s the right thing to do. It’s what he needs.

A sudden seething pain at his other hand propels him to his feet, yelping and frantically hitting on his hand where a small wisp of smoke rises. Cursing loudly he glances up to the small window slits, letting enough sunlight through to draw a few golden lines on the floor, just where he sat until a minute ago. Deep in thoughts, he hadn’t even noticed the curve the train was rounding, making the sunny patches move. He slumps to his knees, snatching the bottle of whiskey he brought, pulling the cork with his teeth and pouring some of it over the burn. “Ow! Bloody hell!” Raising the bottle he gulps down two or three mouths full of the amber liquid, and then one more. “Bloody hell,” he repeats, murmuring this time.

Again he glances up at the window; then he shrugs off his duster and drapes it over the slits, carefully avoiding the sun beams, cramming the leather through the highest opening to fix it. He hopes it’ll stay there; the train will be on its tracks another twelve hours before reaching its destination and he intended to catch some sleep in the hay. He’s not keen on waking up on fire.

Plus: If he dusts, Buffy will be lost. And he can’t let that happen. He promised.

Never mind the stomach lurch the thought alone gives him.

His mind drifts back to Sunnydale, but not in the past; the future is what mostly holds his thoughts in these lonely hours since he left. Not too far into the future though; he doesn’t allow himself to think ahead of bringing Buffy out. He trusts that Anya will find the spell he needs, and also an orb of G’hol, if that is what is necessary to reopen the portal. What he’s not so sure about though is using the spell himself, even though it’s an easy spell, and with a well prepared crystal almost anybody could do it. He’s been around long enough in the supernatural world to know that.

Yet, he isn’t avid of using magic; never was. He’s deeply suspicious of witch stuff. He knows it often helped them, and he wouldn’t risk forgoing magic if needed, but he’d always stay apprehensive. To do a spell with a matter this sensible renders him terrified, even if he tried to appear calm and convinced when telling demon girl about it. Magic has often unforeseen consequences, and he really doesn’t want to consider what could happen during a fusion spell. With the woman he loves, at that.

He raises his hand, braces his palm on the back of his neck, drags his elbow toward his chest. His head tilting to one side, the releasing cracks sound through the wagon.

He has no choice. It’s the only way to bring her back, and he’s the only one who can do it. Will be anyway, when he’ll have the thing she can fuse with; when he succeeds in Africa. When he’ll be back with his soul.

His soul.

The word alone still awakens a flutter in his stomach, not unlike fear, but not quite. Not anymore. Not since he left her trusting him to come back and help her.

He remembers when the thought of getting his soul back entered his mind for the first time; startled him out of feeling utterly helpless, more of a threat then than a solution. Born out of the deep wish to help the woman sitting so lost beside him in the shadow and finding not a single word of comfort. He saw her forcing herself to step into the light, the brightness she just had told him was hurting her, trying so hard to convince herself that she still belonged there, or at least would again, one day, while he had to remain not quite in the dark anymore, but still in the shadows. He saw how much it pained her, how alone she felt, and he couldn’t do a damn thing. Because, for the first time ever, he completely understood what she went through and yet hadn’t the tiniest glimpse of understanding; not about how she really felt. He knew pain and despair very well; still he knew intuitively that those were her feelings only at the surface, lying just underneath the mask she put on for those who had committed the crime to bring her back from heaven. He felt that there was something a lot worse hidden by the two layers he could see, and he had no way to get deeper; to reach right into her very soul. Because he hadn’t one.

It was in this moment that, for the first time, the idea of getting himself a soul ambushed his mind, driving its hooks in and never letting go again, however hard he fought to dismiss it.

But although he did try to get rid of it, in the beginning it actually didn’t bother him much that it didn’t work. It wasn’t really an idea, after all; it was more of a bad joke. A thought you could wave away with a shrug because it wasn’t worth being considered seriously; because, really, what self-respecting demon would do such thing? Getting themselves a soul, voluntarily. Yeah, right.

There came more moments, though, that rendered him feeling inadequately equipped for understanding her, helping her; and with each one the thought of the soul wormed its way deeper and deeper into his consciousness, incessantly, mercilessly.

He vividly recalls the shock that surged through him when she first climbed him, the brief moment of awe he felt because, for one happy second, he thought she’d just succumbed to her hidden desire because she felt for him. Until he caught sight of her face, drenched in pain, and he felt a second shock wave course through him, because he knew, could feel how much she ached, and once more he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Could only be what she needed right now, hoping to help her by sharing the burden, bearing the knowledge that she’d hate herself just a little bit more after that.

But he knew it wasn’t enough; only he didn’t understand why.

And more and more his mind circled around his soulless state, and more and more it left him feeling incomplete.

The second he became aware for the first time that thinking about it terrified him, he realized that imperceptibly something had changed. Somehow it wasn’t merely a ridiculous notion any longer, swirling in his head every now and then, fueled by the urge to understand her better; disturbing, but too far-fetched to think about it twice; too repugnant to even want to.

Somehow it had turned into a thought that scared the hell out of him.

And something that could scare him that much had to be real. He understood instantly that he obviously had toyed with the idea in earnest without even noticing.

Never one for shying away from something scary, but throwing himself into the fray head first, consequences be damned, he began to dig. Already knowing about the old legend, it took him just a couple of weeks to get the address of a shaman in Africa. Written on a small paper, he carried it with him all the time and allowed himself to get used to the idea. With every incidence with the Slayer that left him feeling incapable of making her feel better, left him feeling helpless, the fear gradually dissipated. And slowly he gained the self-confidence that if necessary, he could do that. All the more so since she never left out a chance of throwing his soullessness into his face as the main reason for her refusal to see him as what he tried to be for her.

He just wasn’t ready to severely consider to go through with it, wasn’t ready yet to feel the need. But he knew that he was close; not to be good enough for her, but to understand how to be good for her. It was then that the presence of the paper in his pocket began to feel oddly comforting, even when the feeling of nausea still prevailed.

Until last night. Every doubt he still had left was washed away, leaving him cleansed of any remaining trace of disgust. And now that he’s determined, setting things in motion even, he almost feels like a child on Christmas Eve, all excited and stomach-fluttery.

“My soul,” he tries the words out loud, and he’s oddly pleased about the sound of it. He’s aware that he hasn’t a clue what is waiting for him, neither in Africa nor thereafter; but he’s ready to face it.

He thinks of Angel; as much as he loathes him, especially in the disguise of the ensouled vampire - he’s still the only reference he has. He remembers that his grand-sire struggled with having a soul, a lot, to be honest. But he didn’t choose it, did he? For Angelus, it was the curse it was meant to be. He never wanted to be _good_ , and oh boy, could Spike ever understand that.

But that was then.

Sighing, he reaches up into a pocket of his duster, careful not to tear it from the window, and pulls out his cigarettes. He fishes the Zippo out of his pants pocket, puts a fag between his lips and lights it. He perches himself on a haystack after grabbing an empty bottle as a substitute for an ash tray. Burning cigarette, lots of hay and a flammable vampire – not a good combination.

He closes his eyes, savoring the feeling of smoke in his lungs before he blows it out slowly, letting his thoughts drift to the past again.

Back then, Spike almost felt pity for his grand-sire. Angelus, member of the Scourge of Europe, practically forced to be good. But now everything is different.

He has long since changed into a do-gooder himself, if only for gaining her attention, respect, affection. But that’s not really true, is it? There are things the Slayer does he can’t understand, such as risking her life for people she doesn’t even know. But doing good for humans you care about? Yeah, he gets that now. There’s not much he wouldn’t do for Dawn, and not any longer just because he knows how important she is for Buffy. And Red, Tara…even last year he took the chip-induced migraine on Tara’s behalf without batting an eye. Still, only for people he cares about. But if it weren’t for her, he would probably go back to his old ways in a blink if he ever lost the soddin’ chip, sparing only the lives of those he likes. It’s not that he’s not still evil after all, doesn’t relish a good slaughter.

Unknowingly, his tongue curls over his teeth, his eyes glinting in a wicked grin at that thought; but then the grin recedes and, his brows drawn together, he frowns. On second thought, he has to concede that that’s not really true either. He remembers the night he thought the chip had stopped working. The first thing he did was hunt down a girl to drink her dry. Only that it wasn’t because he really longed to do that; it was more about proving something to himself. He realized when he had her pinned to the wall how hard it was to bite her, hurt her, kill her. He had to talk himself into doing it, and as baffled as he was, he felt oddly relieved when the chip zipped him back. He hadn’t thought about this incident too closely; hadn’t wanted to, and too much had happened later that night. But now he can’t help but face the truth.

He isn’t as evil as he likes to be; not anymore. There are slices of a conscience, developed by being too long with the Slayer, having seen too much of what’s in her heart. By having experienced himself the effect of protecting, saving someone he cared about.

By having lost the one he loved.

He can’t shake the image of those who’d stay behind, of those who’d lose the one he’d drink dry. Because once he was the one left behind, and he can’t wish the agony upon anyone, can’t ignore the thought of causing it. Can’t not care about that anymore.

So, if that ship sailed long ago anyway, isn’t it the logical next step to get his soul back? Because he’s all too aware that he’s incomplete for the world she lives in. As much as he perceives even small things no one else sees, he still lacks understanding. And he needs to understand her to be able to help her; he learned that by now. If nothing else, her meltdown in hell’s antechamber proved that. He’s certain that, had he had a soul, he would’ve understood earlier.

It’s this incompleteness he’d felt all along; now he knows.

He may be here today because she needs him to do this right now, to get her back.

But he had the address before. The small paper, worn from being touched, caressed for weeks.

In the end, he’s here because he needs it. Because she needs him to need this.

Because he loves her.

“My soul,” he says, and this time, there’s conviction behind.

 

                                   *******************************************

 

Days go by outside, but Buffy doesn’t know that.

She doesn’t know that in her home dimension, Anya does everything in her power to get an orb of G’hol and the right words for a fusion spell. Apart from that, she tries her best to convince the Scoobies that there’s no need for the cavalry, that Buffy will be back soon, and that she will be fine. And she lies about where she knows that from, makes an idiot out of herself by making up visions, lying that badly that she knows no one believes her. But she promised, and so she doesn’t tell. Luckily Xander trusts her enough to hold the gang off for a while, to listen to her whenever she insists that something cannot be done; preventing Willow from getting Tara to do an inter-dimensional locator spell was the hardest, but she succeeded; for now. Anya is glad that no one noticed the absence of Spike, because she knows that Xander’s trust would end right there. But no one ever misses him.

Buffy doesn’t know that Dawn cries herself into sleep, wishing the Bot were still there, helping to quell the loneliness, if not the fear.

She doesn’t know that Spike, after crossing half of the country on freight trains, decided that getting to Africa on a ship would take too long; that he has been on a plane, for the first time in his long life, and that he had to overcome his fear to even enter the cargo hold, but was quite fascinated seeing the land passing by when he dared peering through the window then, silently wondering why the hell there even were windows in the freight room. It wasn’t that the crates he was sharing the room with could marvel at the view, right?

Buffy doesn’t know all that. For her it was only a few hours, maybe. Maybe just one, feeling much longer, because it’s so hard, so hard to just lie there. And wait.

The siren’s song has gotten so prominent in her head, it’s hard to think of anything else. To focus on her will to stay away from it, when said will is diminishing every minute.

She pulls her hands up to her face for the umpteenth time, buries her nose in the fabric around her wrist, inhaling his scent. It’s the only thing left helping her to stay strong, because it still helps her conjure up his face in her mind, his eyes pleading with her not to give in, his voice promising to come back.

She doesn’t think about anyone else outside, she can’t. It doesn’t help.

She knows because she tried.

She thought of Willow, how sad and forlorn she appeared since the separation from Tara; how hard she fought to stay away from magic for good. And how little her own effort had been to help her.

She thought of Xander, and how strangely he acted sometimes during the last weeks. And that she never even had bothered to ask him why that was.

She thought of Dawn and how snippy she always reacted when Buffy had to leave her alone again. And how annoyed, even angry that always made her.

She knew she was supposed to feel compassion for Willow, should worry about what was wrong with Xander. Was supposed to be sad that she never could spend more time with her sister. Alas, she felt nothing; at least nothing but guilt for having failed them, which in turn only left her more guilty than before, even more wanting to go back to heaven. Left her giving in to the pull without even noticing until the distance to the veil had already melted away by half.

From that moment on she was done trying. She could try to care about their problems when she was out of here; in here, she would focus now on the one thing that _had_ helped her until now.

She snorts. Funny how he was the one who constantly tried to pull her into the darkness to him, and now the memory of him is the only one making her want to stay away from it because he begged her to. She doesn’t really know how this works, why it is that it helps her to think about him; maybe because she knows he’d do about anything to keep her safe, keep her with him. Whatever the reason, she catches herself wishing fiercely he would be here, holding her back. Holding her.

It’s not the first time she ever thought of him holding her without having sex. Of her embracing him. But it’s the first time that she doesn’t chase the thought away as soon as it sneaks up on her, hissing in rage that it even dared to approach. It’s the first time she allows the image to tentatively settle in her mind, and she’s surprised when she realizes that, once entered, it easily makes itself comfortable there.

It’s as if a dam broke when she fell apart and let him catch her, holding her shattered pieces together. He was there when a part of the carefully erected walls around her crumbled, actually he gave it the last kick to break down with his questions. For the first time, in panic of the supposed lightness threatening her, she let some of the darkness in herself pour out. And he, by being there, trembling, _weeping_ with her, for her, turned it into something else entirely. What before lay heavily and black on her soul, weighing her down harder each day, began to hesitantly morph into a feeling. Not one of the light, happy ones, but a feeling nonetheless. A feeling to mull over, to cry about, to maybe talk about, to influence her decisions, to do whatever feelings do to a person. And that was something she had craved from the first moment of being back, and it had always been denied her.

The only times she ever had felt something were when she was with Spike, but always only with her body; never with her soul. She had hated him for being the one making her feel at all and had needed to hurt him for it like she hurt. Had hated herself so much for stooping so low, doing those things with a demon she loathed, not only lowering herself in using _him_ , but in merely _using_. Because she’d always known how much she hurt him, had known that she willingly believed the lie of a demon’s inability to feel, which only added to her guilt. Making it all the more important to never let him doubt her intentions, so how could she allow him to show her affection?

So she never did. Until today. Today she’d been too weak to rage against it, frozen in her misery; had needed it too much in order not to turn into ice entirely. And he had seized his one chance without thinking, his urge to be there for her stronger than the dread of agonizing rejection, almost palpable in the warmth that radiated off of him despite his bodily coolness. And he of all people had managed to begin melting her shell, to give her a tiny piece of herself back; a piece of the real Buffy, finally not the wrong one. And it felt so good within all the pain that now she encourages her mind to latch onto the memory, wishing for even more.

The weirdest thing is that she pictures herself crying in his arms again, and she, who never wants to show any weaknesses, is weirdly okay with it. Because she knows he would be, too. She knows that, other than her friends and family, he doesn’t expect her to be anyone but just Buffy, and that’s comforting and liberating at the same time.

Again she wonders why she hadn’t been able to acknowledge his love for her. She was the one who could see past his Big Bad attitude; could see that he was worthy of her trust even with the one most precious to her, her sister. He had never betrayed her belief in him, and she had counted on him like no one else. She had known, of course, that he didn’t act out of the goodness of his heart, but only for her, at least in the beginning. Then why could she still deny him the depth of his feelings for her, even before her world went black?

She goes completely still for a second or two when an old memory assaults her out of the blue. One that doesn’t seem to fit in her train of thoughts, and yet, suddenly everything falls in place, and a moan of pain escapes her throat. It’s her own voice she hears, making her mind snap back for years.

_T_ _here must be some part of you inside that still remembers who you are._

But there wasn’t.

 _This_ is why she was so blind, why she decided to be blind against evidence. She knows now why she _had_ to believe that he couldn’t love her

Not without a soul.

Because she _knows_ the difference between a vampire with and without a soul. Because she once had known a vampire with a soul; had witnessed him losing it, and with it his ability to love. To love _her_. There was no part left in Angelus even willing to remember.

If someone loving her as much as Angel had could be void of every trace of his feelings for her as soon as the soul was gone – wasn’t that proof that a soul was indispensable for the ability to love? But that implied that Spike couldn’t really love her either.

Because otherwise, what would it say about Angel’s love?

She shivers, and unknowingly her hands rise up to her face again, giving her nose access to the ties.

Not too long ago, this sudden insight, paired with the new found certainty that Spike indeed did love her, would have shattered her world into bits. Doubts about the depth of Angel’s love for her would have been too disturbing to consider, so she never did.

To her mild surprise nothing dramatic happens. She doesn’t know whether this is because of her general lack of feelings, because the recent meeting with Angel had been a little on the disappointing side, or because her love for him begins to fade. All she knows is that thinking about Angel obviously doesn’t help the tiniest bit more than thinking about her friends, because when she checks, she finds herself halfway to the blackness again.

It’s still only Spike’s image that drags her back, away from the danger.

Again she breathes in through her nose, smelling the faintest bit of him in the ties she holds at her face. The siren’s song doesn’t cease to lure, but she stays strong. For him.

Somehow she thinks he’s earned that.

 

 

tbc...

Thanks for reading!

 

 


	6. A new man

** Chapter 6 **

**A New Man**

 

 

The day he leaves the cave should have been the first day of his new life. Instead it’s only the beginning of his biggest fight.

As soon as he recovers a little from the all-consuming pain of having his soul shoved into his chest, he staggers to his feet and stumbles to the entrance. When he sees that the night just set in, he grabs his boots, his shirt and his duster and moves to cross the village. He doesn’t even notice the people that duck out of his way, he’s much too focused on setting one foot in front of the other without tripping onto the sand.

He makes it as far as to the edge of the desert before the memories come crushing down on him like a tsunami wave. His knees buckle under the onslaught and he collapses to the floor. Distantly he hears a whimper, and it takes a while to realize it’s his own voice he hears.

It’s not that he forgot anything of what crashes down on him now; all the kills, the women and girls he drained dry, the children he collected for Dru, the men whose necks he snapped are still in his mind. Only that he didn’t care, didn’t feel responsible. They were merely memories to take delight in during times of boredom. He did what he was supposed to do, relishing it like he was supposed to, nothing else. He never felt a twinge of remorse.

Now he does.

And it shatters him.

Like in a cruel montage, hundreds, thousands of faces appear in his mind’s eye, faces that are contorted in fear and pain. Faces that, mutely or not so mutely at all, seem to ask him why. And he remembers every one of them, remembers the terror they showed, coloring the flavor of their blood deliciously. Remembers the ecstatic elation rushing through his body at tasting their pain, sucking it in with their blood.

His hands shoot to his head, clutching it tightly, as if to protect it from exploding. Tears are streaming down his face, and unarticulated screams tumble from his mouth, cutting through the quiet of the night.

When the pictures and voices in his head fail to diminish, he begins to claw at his forehead and his temples in the desperate attempt to tear them out of his head. All he can think of is to make it stop, until the scent of his own blood hits his nose.

The effect is horrible. The images change their tune; what he sees now is even more atrocious. It’s what he left behind. Bloody necks wherever he looks, ripped out throats, young girls with clothes torn apart, eyes wide in horror even in death. And the voices keep screaming, accusing him that _he_ did this.

And he knows they are right.

All dead, because of him.

He doesn’t know how long it goes on like this. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’s desperately aware that he has to endure this the whole night, because he has no weapon to dust himself, to make an end to this. He has to wait for sunrise. And he can barely stand to wait another minute.

And then suddenly there is a warm hand on his shoulder, another one soothingly stroking his bloody temples. Strong arms help him up, help him to brace himself on broad shoulders. Then finally his world goes black.

When he comes to again, he lies on a thin mattress in a round straw hut. It’s distinctly cooler than outside, and he feels hysterical laughter bubble up in him at the notion that he’s beyond relieved about the change of temperature. Since when does he care about the cold, or the lack of, for that matter? It barely registers that the laugh somehow finds its way to the surface, and that it sounds even more insane than it feels. It’s short lived though, as it is replaced by a scream of anguish within seconds as the next wave of images hits.

And all that’s left is pain.

***

Later, he doesn’t remember how long he stayed there in this hut. Flickers of memories remain of him lying on the bed, screaming, babbling senseless words like a lunatic, laughing, crying. The scent of blood; his own blood, oozing out of the wounds at his chest he cut himself to find a way to get rid of that thing inside him that causes the agony. Every now and then those warm hands soothing him, only hands, never a face. He dimly remembers liquid being forced into his throat; not blood, but something stilling his hunger nonetheless.

He doesn’t know if this was even real.

All he knows is that at one point there was an image his mind latched onto. And held. And focused on it to never lose it again. The image of a blonde girl. Buffy, his maniac mind remembered.

Suddenly he knew she needed him.

And she needed him with that thing he came here for. His soul.

Somewhere buried deep inside of him, almost lost in insanity, merely reachable for him, was the knowledge that without him, she’d be lost to the world. Lost even to herself. That he’d be the only one who could help her; he knew that, even if he didn’t quite remember why.

But he knew he had to go to her. Find her, bring her back.

Had to find himself first.

For her.

Always for her.

He remembers that he focused on _her_ with everything he had left, took a few steadying breaths and, scrambling, got to his feet. Remembers shrugging off the helping hands and shuffling out of the hut, starting his long way home. To her.

 

                                   ************************************

 

The journey back takes him much longer than his coming to Africa. He can’t go on a plane; he’s not lucid enough. He can’t focus as long as he’d need to get on a freight plane unseen; his muddled brain barely allows him access to a cargo ship, since the port isn’t nearly as secured as the airport. At least that is what he assumes is why he’s taking the sea route this time; in the few moments he almost can think clearly he finds that he can’t quite remember how he got in a ship’s cargo hold, and truth be told, he doesn’t really care. He’s much too preoccupied to work on coping with the steady flood of images from his past still assaulting his mind.

He’s in motion, getting closer to her every day. That’s all that counts.

He’s getting hungry, but for the first few days he doesn’t even think of getting himself some blood. The mere thought of gulping down the red liquid that screams of his deeds in the pictures haunting him day and night makes his stomach lurch. Only when he realizes how weak he already is, when he understands that he won’t make it to her if he goes on starving, he resorts to the only possibility he can allow himself; glad about having landed on such a run-down rust bucket, he catches a rat in a desperate leap and breaks its neck. His demon disguise shoots forward, fueled by hunger, and he sinks his fangs into the warm flesh. He drains all the blood this small animal contains and hurls the corpse aside.

It takes just a few seconds until he leans over and retches, throwing up every ounce of blood he just choked down back onto the floor beside him.

He lets himself fall on his back, then turns on his other side, crawling away from the accusing evidence of his new failure. Despair lies thickly over him like a heavy blanket; not comforting, but smoldering. There’s nothing left of him. He’s not the man he once was, despite the soul, but he can’t be the vampire he’s been for more than a century either. He’s nothing. Even more so than before.

He curls up into a ball and weeps, wondering how long he still will have enough liquid in his body for tears.

Much later, the next day maybe or the day after that, he tries again. He has to, he knows that. Luckily there’s no shortage of rats on the ship, and after snapping one’s neck he forces himself to drink slowly, pausing and talking himself into it again and again, his focus solely on the image of a strong blonde girl that for once needs him; needs him to survive, needs him to keep the blood in. The next time it’s a little easier, and after a few more days he realizes that even if he’s not getting stronger, he’s at least not getting any weaker either.

And each and every time after feeding, his streaming tears are proof that he’s not desiccating.

 

                                   ***********************************

 

His crypt. Almost home, but not quite. Not without her. Nowhere is home without her anymore. Home is her. He knows that.

But she isn’t here.

Not yet.

The voices threaten to overrun him, again. Spike breathes in and out deeply, focuses on the image of her. The screams in his head dim down enough to allow him to move on. He pushes the door open, for a moment overwhelmed by the scent in the air. There’s something that doesn’t belong here, something demony, yet familiar. Clem, he remembers. He looks around, now noticing some evidence that the demon resides here, taking care of the place as he promised.

Spike tilts his head, sniffing to find again what overwhelmed him at first. He steps a little closer to the latch on the floor, and there it is. Her scent, still lingering in here, after all those weeks. He cautiously approaches the latch and lifts its lid. Slowly he descends, surprised that Clem apparently never had been here. Down here, it’s only him and her, mingled in a way that makes his heart clench and sing at the same time.

“Her. Her. Not them. Never them,” he mutters, and then, as the voices grow louder again, yells, “Not them! Not you! Get out!” A whimper escapes his throat and his knees buckle. Gripping the ladder, he catches himself. He clutches his head, trying to guide his mind back to her. Breathing a sigh of relief when he finds her again.

His anchor.

“Find it. Have to find it. Find _her_. Safe. Not safe. Not…” An annoyed growl rumbles in his chest, his hand slams against his head, a lame attempt to adjust everything inside. He knows it’s not working though. He tried it so often that, sometimes, he wonders why there still isn’t a dent in his head.

“Rats. No rats in here. No rats…” He listens to the sounds blubbering out of his throat, the maniac giggles, turning into helpless sobs then. He stalks over to his bed and slumps down on it, grabbing his pillow and pressing it against his face, to stifle the noises still coming out of him.

One hand scurries down, his fingers finding the scarred cuts on his chest; as always, they ground him again. Remind him that he _can’t_ get rid of the soul again, that he needs it. For her. To save her.

“Right then.” His own voice again, finally. The one that belongs to the small part of his mind functioning normally against all odds. The part that is, sometimes, capable of conjuring up her image when he needs it. Which is pretty much always.

It has grown a little, that part, since he left Africa. Gradually it lets him be himself again. Lets him fight back the images, the voices, the guilt, long enough to do what needs to be done to survive. Lets him think coherently sometimes, more often than not lately, the closer he gets to her.

It’s like she’s able to help him heal even over the distance, he thinks, just by existing. By needing him sane enough to come back to her.

The thought of needing to get her out sets him in motion. He straightens, takes a deep breath and stands. He climbs up the ladder, and then he stands in the upper room and lets his eyes roam the place. He is surprised how strange it feels to be in here and yet how familiar. He sniffs briefly, regaining his focus on the task at hand, and strides over to the chest. He doesn’t have to think about where to look; the majority of all his more lucid thoughts during the last weeks circled around coming here and retrieving what he’ll need, hoping fiercely that Anya made good on her promise to place the items here.

He hesitates only a second, his hand lingering before the drawer; then he grabs the knob and pulls it open with one swift move.

It’s there. A grayish crystal and an Orb of G’hol. At least he thinks it’s an Orb of G’hol; to him, it’s just a shimmery, glassy ball. Both things are placed on a tee of his that someone arranged for him to see it immediately, but stop the orb from rolling around when opening the drawer. A small paper sheet lies in there too, half covered by the crystal. He pulls it out and unfolds it; only a few words are written on it in a crisp handwriting he knows instantly belongs to the ex-demon, although he never saw something she has written before.

_‘The crystal is prepared._

_You both have to touch it simultaneously._

_The spell is ‘ligate’._

_Good luck.’_

Relief washes over him. He had trusted Anya to get it done, but it was still the only part of the whole mission he had no control over, and he’s beyond glad that everything is set now.

He reads the note again and a small smile sneaks on his lips when he reads the last words. He can picture her being lectured by the whelp to wish someone luck before going on a dangerous mission and her obediently doing as he wants. Still her words mean a lot to him; she trusted him to see it through, and he is more grateful for her belief in him than he ever thought.

The smile, tiny as it is, feels foreign on his face, wrong somehow, undeserved. He thinks he has no right to have an emotion making him smile, not the least bit; he presses his lips together in a thin line, chasing the unwelcome trace of mirth away.

It’s far too easy to scare off.

He glances at the words again and commits the most important word to his memory; the touching thing doesn’t need any memorizing. It’s obvious that they both have to touch the crystal in order to be linked together. He grabs the crystal and stuffs it together with the sheet into his duster pocket where they join the other paper he still keeps there. Then he carefully takes the orb and lets it glide into the other pocket, placing his hand protectively over it.

Thus prepared, he closes his eyes for a moment, willing the images in his head to retreat. “’m comin’, luv,” he whispers, breathes in deeply again and tilts his head aside, causing his neck to crack; then again, determined now, “I’m coming.”

And then he leaves, the duster billowing behind him, feeling stronger than he’s felt ever since he left the cave on the other side of the world.

 

                                   ****************************************

 

He has no trouble finding the right place; it’s his cemetery after all, he’s lived here for more than two years.

He takes the Orb of G’hol out and weighs it in his hand for a second. He’s suddenly very nervous, now that he’s finally standing here, moments away from what he was aiming for all those weeks. He wonders what he’ll find, once the portal is open. Will she still be there? Or will he have to go into the blackness? He briefly considers a third option he never really thought about, because he thinks it really isn’t one; but what if the others have found her and got her out? What if she’s not in there at all, but sitting at home, safe and sound, and he goes into the darkness completely in vain, damned to search for her in hell for all eternity? Worse even, hated by her forever, because he, too, abandoned her?

As if the voices in his head had felt his hesitation, the internal noise swells; he cringes. Then he shakes it off as much as he can. Anya wouldn’t have left the items in his crypt, he’s certain about that. “Shut up!” he snarls, concentrating on the anchor inside him to help him focus.

All of a sudden he can’t wait one more second. He hurls the orb to the ground without thinking any longer, and he feels the change in the air the next second. With a crackling sound the portal appears, a blinding brightness that hurts his eyes.

He steps tentatively closer, and he sees her instantly.

She’s still lying on the ground, her wrists and ankles still tied with strips of his shirt. He’s weirdly touched; she kept the ties, even though it wouldn’t have been a problem to get rid of them, but she did as he’d pleaded, to help her stay strong.

She faces the darkness, and he can see that she trembles. He wonders whether she’s cold, but then he gets it.

She’s just inches away from the veil, and she trembles because she fights with all remaining power against the pull. And she’s about to lose.

There’s no more hesitation. Without further ado he leaps inside and grabs her by her shoulders, dragging her back to safety. She struggles to get free, fights him with her bound hands and legs, trying to wriggle out of his grasp; but he holds her tight to his chest, his arms not giving way an inch. He hasn’t gone around the world and back for letting her slip through at the last moment, after all. He lifts her up and carries her toward the portal, as far away from the veil as he can, right until he feels the barrier hindering her going through. He gently lowers her to the ground then, and she turns around and begins to crawl toward what she thinks is heaven the second he lets go of her.

“Buffy…” There it is, spoken out loud; the one word that kept him going, kept him alive. Buffy. He shivers. This one word contains everything he thought of, everything he felt during the last weeks, despair and longing, grief and hope, fear and love. And he almost falls apart at hearing it all in his voice, by saying just this one word that means the world to him.

His hand is already at her arm again to hold her back, but it’s no longer necessary.

Because at the sound of his voice she freezes, and he knows she heard it, too. She turns her head, slowly, as if she’s afraid to see. When their eyes meet, all the tension, all the fighting leave her, and tears fill her eyes just like his. “Spike…,” she whispers amazed, as if she’s not sure she should trust her eyes, and then she falls silent again, for a long while.

“You’re back.” Relief, incredulity and bewilderment are mingled in her voice when she finally speaks again, her eyes scanning his face, and he wonders what she sees there that makes her eyes go so wide. “It’s been…so long…”

“Wasn’t long,” he objects, “only few weeks.” He isn’t aware that for her, it was a different time period; he only sees the confusion in her face and hurries to explain. “Flew through the air, I did. For you.” He desperately needs her to understand that he did everything he could to be back for her as fast as possible, took even the risk of sneaking on a plane, without knowing whether he could manage to leave it unseen during night time. His face falls a little when he thinks about his desolate condition after the trials; about the time he lost to insanity then, and about his inability to cross the ocean by plane again to save time. “But then over the waters,” he says, almost apologizing. “They wouldn’t let me go with the clouds then. Only screaming and blood. They wouldn’t let me.” He doesn’t see the lack of comprehension that his words cause to appear on her face, the puzzled frown creasing her brows. All he can think of is how close he is to save her. He leans a little forward, tugging at the ties of her wrists, fidgeting at the knots he made weeks ago. Then he loses his patience and grips them tight with both hands, tearing them apart with a jerk, proceeding to free her legs in the same manner. Kneeling before her, he takes her hand in his, his eyes searching hers.

“Come,” he says softly. “Buffy. Come.”

He sees her hesitating, sees her frowning, scrutinizing him; but then she rises to her knees, facing him, and again he feels relief flooding his body. She trusts him, again, still. He turns her hand palm up on his, peels the crystal out of his pocket with his free hand and places it in her open palm. Then he covers her hand with his and, their gazes glued together, he says the word he memorized.

“Ligate.”

It happens fast, and he’s not at all prepared for it. Warmth rises from her to him, from their joined hands and along their connected gazes, too; warmth that has nothing to do with temperature, but is something else entirely, something he doesn’t understand. And then, without a warning, a storm of emotions and images blazing into his mind threatens to overwhelm him. But the thought of her, of getting her out of here, was the one thing he held on to for the past weeks. He clings to it now like to a lifeline, ignoring the onslaught as best as he can, shaking, but determined. With all the strength he has left he gathers her in his free arm, his other hand never leaving hers, the crystal safely tucked between their palms. Half staggering, half crawling he somehow drags her through the portal.

As soon as his feet touch the ground of the cemetery, he slumps down, Buffy still firmly in his arm, and lets the fusion’s blast roll over him. The last thing he consciously discerns is her body going slack. And then he passes out.

 

                                   **************************************

 

The first thing Spike’s aware of when he comes to again is that he’s not alone. A weight is half draped over him that is so familiar that it chokes him. It feels so good, and yet is so deeply associated with longing that, even before his senses kick in, he instantly knows it must be her.

He blinks his eyes open and sees her blonde hair splayed over his shoulder, a loose strand softly fluttering in the early morning breeze. He knows without thinking that this is the faint wind that blows just before dawn; he has to get to his crypt very soon if he doesn’t want to burn.

The second thing he realizes is that the voices in his head are silent. For the first time since he left the cave in Africa, there’s nothing. No screams, no smells, no endless rows of accusing faces – nothing.

He lies completely still, as still as only vampires can, and waits. Waits for the torture to start anew; yet, it doesn’t. He can hear the leaves rustling quietly. He can smell the rich earth beneath him. He can see the colors surrounding him awaken, changing from the nightly grayish to juicy green, to mellow pink, to glowing yellow. He can taste the humidity of last night’s warmth leaving the grass beside him. His senses pick up on the smallest trace of what’s barely detectable, and he wonders whether it always has been like this, before. He can’t quite think back past the fight in the cave. He only recalls eternal torment, every hour, every minute of each day, rendering his senses numb; ebbing away at times, enough to think coherently for a while. But never completely. Not until now.

For the first time since he left the cage he almost feels like himself. Not as he used to feel, changed, but still him.

For a brief moment hope flares in him that it stopped altogether, the ever parading masses of victims accusing him; that maybe it’s his reward for saving the Slayer. For loving her so much that he decided to get his soul for her.

The next second he knows that, of course, nothing in his life is ever so easy.

He’s still grateful for a small break. He turns his head slightly toward the weight on his arm, relishing the feel of her head on it. He doesn’t want to move; not as long as she’s still out and doesn’t push him away from her. With half an eye he squints into the brightening sky, knowing that already he’d have to run, even if he started right now. Instead his hand comes up, stroking her hair, lightly, barely touching it. He listens to her heart slowly, but strongly beating in her chest, knowing that this is probably the one chance in his existence that he’ll ever experience this. A calm contentment settles in his heart, one he never felt before. This is what he wanted. This is why he went to the end of the world, _this_ is his reward. Listening to her strong beating heart, knowing that it will still beat tomorrow, in her own world; because of him.

He did one thing right.

He feels her stirring, only the tiniest twitching of a muscle, but he knows she’ll wake soon. He presses his lips on her crown, softly, breathing in her scent, and carefully wriggles out from under her head. Sitting up beside her, he gently loosens their hands that are still glued together, the crystal safe between them. Peeling her hand off from his, he closes his fingers around the stone. He stands up and shoves it back into his pants pocket, not really knowing if there’s still magic in it or if it’s drained.

As soon as their connection breaks, the voices are back. Not yet at full power, but he knows they will be. He gazes at her for a long moment, and it’s then that he understands that it was her; that she shielded him, protected him from the victims of his past, with her very soul.

Gave him the break, however small, that gave him the strength to get up and run.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and he doesn’t know whether he means the silence in his head or the sound of her heartbeat.

And then he turns and dashes away.

 

 


	7. Home sweet home

** Chapter 7 **

**Home sweet home**

 

 

Slowly the bliss of oblivion glides away. It gives way to a much more horrific feeling, and Buffy isn’t ready yet to face it.

So she squeezes her eyes shut, hoping to block the memory out like the light around her.

She realizes that it’s not only a vain effort, but in fact makes it even worse. Without something to latch her eyes on, they focus on the pictures in her mind; pictures so gruesome that her eyes fly open in horror of their own volition, only to see _any_ thing else.

As her eyes slowly get used to the bright morning light, they scan the surroundings. It doesn’t take long for her dazed brain to recognize the place - she’s lying on the ground in Spike’s cemetery; and all of a sudden the knowledge is back that it’s where she last patrolled. Before she met Spike, got in a fight with him and they were sucked into the other dimension.

Spike…

As if a sluice has been opened, the memories sweep back in. The blackness, her meltdown, Spike giving her…she swallows; she doesn’t want to think about what exactly he gave her. She settles on comfort then, that’ll do. Spike giving her comfort. That’s still weird enough.

Then Spike binding her. Spike leaving her.

Being alone. Her fighting with the urge to succumb to the temptation. His pleading eyes in her mind. Still slowly losing the battle.

And then he was there again, literally in the last moment. She knows that, had he come only minutes later, she would have been gone through the veil. And as certain as she is about that, as well she knows that he saved her. She knows now, being back in her own world, beyond any doubt that he was right, that this wasn’t heaven. He tore her out of evil’s claws just as they began to close around her. And then he did something, after having uttered some half sentences that didn’t make any sense; did something to get her out of there, something with a crystal in their hands, and he said something; a spell…?

She shudders and a whimper slips out of her throat when she remembers the images she tried to shut out earlier, befalling her like a hurricane, paralyzing her. Remembers fear suddenly rushing through her veins and horror and _guilt_ , so much guilt. A whirlwind of emotions and pictures, of screams and smells; blood and flesh, blonde hair and soft skin, _no_ and _help me_ and _don’t_ ; copper and arousal, love and disgust; running feet and hitting fists, grief and glee, loss and brutality and remorse. So many faces, so many bloodied throats; trust and distrust, love and despair, hope and sadness. Blood. Men, women, children; screaming, bleeding, begging, cracking. Tenderness and violence. All mingled together into the world’s most terrifying nightmare.

She pushes herself up on hands and knees and throws up, empties her stomach of the little that was still in there after all that time not eating or drinking, and then some.

When she’s done, she turns and crawls a few yards away on all fours, then lets herself fall down to the ground again.

She never in her whole life felt as horrible as she does now; she almost wishes the former numbness back. She has seen a lot of bad things since her calling, has done a few on her own. But nothing compares with what she experienced the moments after Spike did whatever he did.

She doesn’t understand any of this; she only knows it’s somehow connected to him, and it breaks her.

She lies on the ground of the cemetery, curled up into a tight ball, motionless, her hands clutching her head. She doesn’t even bother to wipe away the streaming tears, doesn’t notice, really. She briefly wonders where he is, Spike, her savior, her destroyer. If he’s a pile of dust, caught by the early sunbeams like she was, mingling with her vomit.

She doesn’t care.

She thinks she will never care about anything again.

She doesn’t know how long she lay there when she’s startled out of her nightmare by a hesitant hand on her shoulder and a cautious voice.

“Miss? Do you need help?”

Buffy reflexively turns on her back, squinting into the worried face of an elderly woman. She can’t stay here for the rest of her life, that much is clear. She sits up, wiping her face, trying to focus.

“What happened?”

She knows of course the woman means well. But this question suddenly gets her furious beyond belief. How dare she ask such thing? Ask something so intimate, because Buffy knows what happened _is_ intimate somehow, when she doesn’t have an answer? Can’t even remotely think of an answer?

She jumps to her feet, not caring about the dizzy feeling in her head from the sudden movement and from not having eaten for God knows how long. Glaring at the intruder, not caring about the shock on the woman’s face either. She wants to yell at her, punch her tiny glasses into her fear-widened eyes for disturbing her.

She doesn’t do any of this, of course. After a long while, she just turns on her heels and runs.

 

                                   **************************************

 

She runs all the way home, as if she could escape the images in her mind if only she was fast enough. She bursts through the door of her house, kicks her boots off her feet and races upstairs, barely taking the time to rip her clothes off before she dashes into the shower. She turns the water on, as hot as she can stand in and then a little hotter. She feels the water prickling on her skin, nearly burning it, and holds her head under the spray. She pictures the heat burning away all those disturbing images in her head she can’t get rid of, hopes fiercely that maybe by a miracle they get washed out of her brain, run down her body along with the water and vanish in the drain.

They don’t.

She has no idea how long she stands there, shaking despite the steamy heat, but at one point the water begins to cool down and she turns it off.

It’s hopeless; whatever those pictures, smells, noises are, they are burned into her mind as deeply as if they were recent memories.

She grabs a towel and dries her reddened skin; she sighs, resignation taking over. Apparently she’ll have to live with them; she might as well try to figure out what the heck they are. Maybe she can cope better if she understands them. They sure as hell aren’t memories; not hers anyway.

She frowns. Where did that come from? She can’t have someone else’s memories in her head, that’s just stupid, right? It’s just her mind playing tricks on her; cruel tricks, however.

Only they damn well feel like memories.

And then, just like that, she knows.

Spike.

It was he who presented her with the horror show in her head.

It couldn’t be, shouldn’t be possible, but somehow, by some incident loads of old memories, memories of other people, of _vampires_ , have been flushed into her. Maybe it’s something like slayer vision, she thinks. Maybe it’s something every slayer has inherited, together with their calling, only she hadn’t detected it yet; and by whatever Spike did with her in the portal it’s been brought to the surface.

She’s painfully aware that some of the pictures could easily be memories of his. Her insides churn; even though she knows he probably savors them, she doesn’t want him to have this kind of memories, not for his sake, and certainly not for hers. But she knows better. She knows a thing or two about the life he led before they met, always knew that he’d done a lot of evil in his day. But seeing shreds of what could be some of them, kind of reliving them is different, and she feels nauseous again.

Surprisingly a part of her also feels a twinge of compassion - the part that recalls feeling remorse and a lot of guilt. It’s the part not quite fitting to the mix, and she wonders if maybe those are emotions of Angel. He is very old after all, and had his soul for over a century. If what’s in her head are collected memories of random vampires, why not having those feelings of remorse he fought for a hundred years with too?

But the slice of compassion is silenced by another feeling quickly overlaying anything else. It’s the same that caused her to want to yell at the woman in the cemetery, an overwhelming fury, only this time it’s directed at Spike, who she’s sure somehow burdened her with a part of vampires’ inner selves. A part she never asked for knowing, and he never questioned to lay on her.

A burning sensation tears her eyes to her hands, which are rubbing the towel over her thighs so hard that her skin is sore and begins to bleed. She freezes, watching tiny little droplets of blood appear on her thigh, little dark stars on a red sky. Watches until her body violently awakens to motion. She lets out a cry of rage, throwing the towel against the next wall, wishing fiercely it was something hard and heavy that would collide with a bang, preferably breaking. She whirls around, forcefully wipes the board over the sink free from all the pots on it with her arm, relishing the noise they make as they clatter on the tiled floor. She raises her hand to repeat the work at another board, but suddenly breaks it off, her fury as quickly dissolving into utter despair as it had risen. Her hand flutters into her face, covering her mouth, trying to reign in the sobs pouring out. Her legs buckle, powerless all of a sudden, and she slumps down on the floor.

She doesn’t know how long she sits there, frozen, like an ice cube waiting to melt, ready to be washed away and flushed down the drain.

She’s surprised that she even hears the front door opening and then being slammed closed. She holds her breath at the brief silence, and then she hears her sister’s voice, warily, almost scared.

“Buffy?”

Buffy is amazed at how easily she snaps back into her old mask, puts the raging Buffy and the sobbing Buffy as well as the frozen Buffy somewhere in the background, out of sight, and she breathes out in relief. It’s her familiar shell, her smiling _I’m-fine_ shell, cozy and smoldering at the same time. And although she’s clueless about what to tell Dawn, she welcomes the break she gained in all things Spike. She knows of course that she won’t tell anything of what happened with him, the thought alone of speaking about it, any of it, chokes her. Hopefully being with Dawn will distract her for a while.

She rises to her feet and wipes the tears from her face. She gathers the towel from the floor and wraps it around her, fixes it, and steps out of the bathroom. “Up here, Dawn,” she says loudly.

With closing the door behind her, she pushes the merry-go-round out of her brain and leaves it behind, locked up tight in the bathroom.

And with it every conscious thought about Spike.

Or so she hopes.

 

                                   ******************************************

 

As if to make up for the short break he had, it’s soon all back with a vengeance. Louder, more glaring, much crueler.

What’s worse, there’s no task anymore to focus on, her face not the anchor any longer now that she’s safe.

The blessed knowledge that he’d done one thing right? It’s not soothing his soul for long. It laughs in his face quickly after getting back to his crypt, accuses him of trying to tip the scale to his favor, reminds him that it doesn’t work that way.

One good deed doesn’t outweigh his past misdeeds, there are too many of them.

“I know,” he yells, “fuck off! I know what I’ve done. It’s not why I saved her, to atone. Shut up already!”

But the voices never obey; why should they?

There are still so many faces, so many voices; screaming at him, reminding him, damning him; and nothing to hold onto. The accusations get more specific, the faces clearer. He sometimes can remember the exact day when he killed that particular person, no matter how many decades ago, recalls the exact circumstances, each cruelty he committed before the kill. The victim’s scent assaulting his memories, drenched in the stench of fear, makes his stomach roil, even though he remembers savoring it back then.

He begins to hate his soul, hates what it does to him, even as he acknowledges - the soul, that’s _him_.

His moments of lucidity lessen; maybe because while lucid, it’s even worse.

He tries to get rid of the soul, tries to rip it out of his chest, just like in Africa right after getting it. Only this time, there’s no more reason not to, so he tries, until his chest is a bloody mess, torn open to his ribcage. But he can’t find the sodding thing, can’t get a grip on it to tear it out.

That’s when he breaks down sobbing like a toddler and Buffy appears in his mind, but for the first time it doesn’t help. She regards him with cold eyes, and then she reminds him what he did to _her_ , to the ones she loves; asks him if he really thought they were even now. Laughs at him. That’s the last straw; he can’t bear her laughing at him, not now, adding to the rest.

He passes out. At least he hasn’t to endure her any longer then.

She reappears, of course; she’s been the center of his unlife for far too long. She’s not always that cruel. Sometimes she just looks at him, and he can see compassion brimming in her eyes. Those are the rare moments he allows his conscience to take over.

But then he realizes that days have gone by, and she didn’t even show up once. And even though he hadn’t really expected her to come and look for him, it still hurts that she doesn’t. That she still doesn’t care.

It’s one of those moments that, for the first time, he thinks he should end his life. But he instantly knows, ponce that he is, he won’t be strong enough.

He begins to hope that she will.

 

                                   ******************************************

 

She doesn’t go out for days.

At first she says she’s tired, which she is. Telling Dawn and then her friends what happened exhausts her, because thinking about it brings back the fear she had and, much worse, the inherited memories that she so fiercely hopes to forget rush back to the surface.

It also brings back all the confusing stuff that went down between her and Spike before he left, and that’s probably the most exhausting part

She doesn’t want to speak about Spike’s part in the story, doesn’t even want to think about him. Since she’s not prepared to come up with a convincing lie, she just tells the true story, only without him in it, stating that she has no idea how she got out in the end. Which isn’t exactly a lie, because she really hasn’t a clue what the vampire did.

She realizes that her story is a bit lame like that and that the Scoobies are a little skeptical, but none of them suspects her not to tell the truth; they are too glad that she’s back at all to really care about the how, and they don’t inquire of her too thoroughly anyway ever since they learned where they brought her back from. Only Anya stares at her in a weird way, but that’s not really unusual.

She retreats to her room as soon as possible, ignoring the bewildered and slightly disappointed faces. She feels a little like the night they tore her out of heaven; everything is too much. Voices too loud, lights too bright, and too many expectations. And even though she’s surrounded by those she loves most in this world, like then she feels utterly alone.

The next few days she only comes out to go to the bathroom or fetch something to drink and, if she can’t avoid Dawn, something to eat.

Once, when nobody else is home, she tries to watch TV. But it just reminds her of Spike, and after a few minutes she switches it off again and runs off to her room.

At first they leave her be, but after two days she can hear them quietly debating how to handle her, how to bring her back to normal. Willow knocks at her door after a while, then comes in despite not being invited. She means well, Buffy knows that, but immediately anger rises in her throat. She suppresses it, stays calm, says her _I’m fine_ , tells the witch she just needs a break, a little time out, and that she’ll be okay in a few days.

After Willow leaves, she locks up the door.

Mostly she just lies on her bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think of anything.

Sometimes it even works for a little while.

Much more often it doesn’t. Then she alternates between weeping, throwing things when she knows she’s alone in the house, writing meaningless words on a notepad and tearing the paper in tiny little pieces right after, and then weeping some more. All the while contemplating the images she thoroughly hates, but still has to live with, wondering what happened in the other dimension, what happened to Spike. She remembers vaguely that he was behaving strangely before he yanked her out. Something was different about him, but she can’t put her finger on it, and her memories of these moments are a blur, disturbed by the ones she got from him a little later.

If only she knew how that happened, maybe she could get rid of them, she thinks.

But the only one she could ask is Spike, and she has no desire to see him. At all.

She doesn’t even know if he’s alive.

She’s not sure she wants to know.

She barely sleeps; as soon as she closes her eyes, the cruelties in her head ambush her. If she slips into sleep by accident, she has nightmares. She always wakes up screaming, her heart racing, belatedly trying to stifle the noise with her pillow. She answers the worried voices at her door that _I’m fine_ , she just had a nightmare, or she flat out ignores them.

After four days, Anya is at her door. Buffy could hear that she’s determined by the way she rushed up the stairs, and she sighs.

“Buffy, open up.”

Quietly, but determined. Like she thought.

“Go away, Anya. I don’t want any visitors, I’m tired.”

“I have to talk to you, and I suppose you don’t want anyone else to hear. Willow and Dawn are in the kitchen, and I pretended to go to the bathroom, but they won’t be fooled for long.”

When Buffy doesn’t answer instantly, she adds, almost whispering this time, “It’s about Spike.”

Buffy reels back. If that was supposed to be a door opener, Anya was very wrong, because he’s the main reason she shut herself off for the last days. He’s the one thing in the world she doesn’t want to think about, no less talk about.

Then again, maybe Anya has the information Buffy needs. Tentatively she steps closer, and then she reluctantly unlocks the door.

The ex-demon is in her room in a flash. She closes the door behind her, and then she looks at Buffy, grimacing with disdain at her sight.

“My God, you look like crap,” she exclaims, clapping her hand over her mouth the next moment, afraid to have alarmed the other girls in the kitchen. She listens for a while for noises; when there are none, she turns toward Buffy, her eyes roaming over her body and face. “You should really eat something. And sleep,” she whispers conspiratorially, and Buffy rolls her eyes.

“Thanks for the tip,” she mutters, annoyed. If only she could, she thinks, her eyes travelling briefly to the abandoned cereals and pizza slices she brought to her room to placate her worried sister, but never could actually eat more than a few bites. “You didn’t come here to give me advice for my health, Anya. What about Spike?” She feels a nervous flutter in her belly in anticipation of the news.

Anya visibly focuses. “Right. Spike. I know Xander would kill me if he knew that I was at his crypt, he really doesn’t like Spike. I kind of do, though, he is…”

“Anya!” Buffy shouts, exasperated, and Anya winces.

“Geez, you don’t have to yell at me. I think you should go and check on him, that’s all.” She speaks matter-of-factly, not expecting any reaction other than a nod and an okay, maybe a why. What she doesn't expect though is Buffy paling and flinching, violently shaking her head, eyes wide. “What? Buffy?”

Buffy sees the expression on Anya’s face shift and understands that she’s bewildered. She has an inkling how she appears - horrified. Because she is. With an effort she brings herself to answer, her throat letting through not more than a hoarse whisper. “Why?”

Compassion settles in the ex-demon’s eyes, something Buffy rarely has seen. She wonders whether Anya feels for her or for him. “I think he’s sick. Can vampires get sick?” She looks a little unsure.

Buffy clears her throat, trying to regain her composure. Trying to rein the fear and the always present fury in. Trying to find her mask again. “How should I know? You’re the one who’s lived, like, forever,” she snaps. “Ask Willow to look after him. I’m not feeling well myself.”

And now, seeing Anya’s expression changing again, she’s suddenly sure that the girl knows more than she lets on. It’s the same weird expression her face wore when Buffy told the others the only half true story about her trip to the other dimension, which she now recognizes as disapproval. And she thinks she also detects a little anger in the mix, and that is even more bemusing. And then Buffy suddenly remembers that Anya was the one who corrected her when she told them about the Mahatma demon, knew that it was a Mala’hla demon. No one noticed, because she’s been a demon for a thousand years and knows a whole lot more than anyone else about them. But knowing it so quickly, without even hearing the description the Slayer gave them later, that was definitely suspicious.

“You know something.” Buffy struggles to keep the accusation out of her voice, but Anya seems unfazed anyway.

“What I know is that I really think you should go to him,” the girl insists, and then, seeing Buffy’s eyes flash in anger, tries to appease her. “Look, I was at his place. I tried to help him, but…I really think _you_ should go.”

Buffy steps closer, grabbing the other girl’s arm. She’s getting really impatient now, and it doesn’t help that she can’t sort out her feelings anymore, because she realizes with a pang that she’s not only scared and angry, but also kinda worried. About Spike. However that happened. “Why would you even want to help him? What do you know?”

Anya’s eyes are round now, but she raises her chin defiantly. “I can’t tell. I promised.”

Something in Buffy snaps; rage seethes up like boiling milk, foaming, hundreds of small bubbles exploding. She’s the Slayer. If there’s something important going on with Spike, she ought to know. How dare she not tell her just because of a promise?

The rage pushes her forward, invading the other’s space, eyes blazing. “Promised? What? Promised who?” she hisses, every inch the pissed off Slayer.

Anya shrinks back, but then stands her ground. “See, that’s the promise. Not to tell. So I won’t tell you. I already kinda break it in telling you to go check on him. You won’t get me to feel bad for keeping my promise.” She straightens her dress in that nervous gesture of hers, and that’s what snaps Buffy out of it. She scared her kind-of friend; that’s not how it’s supposed to be. She should protect her from having fear, not cause it. Plus, she’s right; a promise is a promise.

She sighs, the tension slowly ebbing away when she realizes that she decided to go check on him anyway. She’ll see for herself. “Okay. I’ll go.”

Anya nods, relief apparent on her face. She rapidly turns to go, obviously keen on getting away from the intimidating Slayer, but in the door she pauses briefly and turns half back, throwing Buffy a glance over her shoulder.

“He really does love you, you know?” she says softly, and then she steps out and quickly closes the door behind her.

Buffy stares after her, thunderstruck. That was really the last thing she ever expected to hear out of Xander’s girlfriend’s mouth.

And she much preferred not to have to.

 

 

tbc...


	8. Crying shame

** Chapter 8 **

**Crying shame**

 

 

She waits until the others are sleeping. For one she doesn’t feel like telling them where she’s headed, and she lied to them enough; but she also doesn’t really want to go.

And that’s an understatement.

The truth is, she’s scared shitless. She’s scared about what she’ll find, when even Anya is concerned. But it frightens her much more that she is scared about that. That she is so worried about Spike that the thought of what might have happened to him scares the crap out of her.

She’s also scared that she might dust him. She’s still so mad at him.

For leaving her.

For having the audacity to ask the right, the completely wrong question back there in the portal.

For being so God damned _good_ to her then.

For somehow shoving those horrid images into her brain.

She’s still fuming, her seething anger merely thrust down under the surface, held there under so much pressure that she feels like a nitro glycerin bomb, bound to blow up with the slightest tremor. At his sight she might just explode and plunge the stake right into his heart without batting an eye.

She might just dust him.

Most of all she’s scared to death that the thought of staking him frightens her so much.

She’s not supposed to feel that way. And she really, _really_ doesn’t want to.

But she can’t help it that amidst all those thoughts about how mad at him she is, the image of his pleading eyes pops up in her head again, the feel of his body around her. So different from all the other imprints his body made in her brain, those that she so often tried to prevent him making, but that she sought out all the same. That she always so vainly tried to forget afterwards. That she hates him for making, hates herself even more for letting him, craving him, giving in. This one though was different, not only in way of intention, but more than anything in the way it felt to her. In the way she felt about it.

Something changed in the portal, a subtle shift somewhere inside her, in a place that she can’t identify. She only knows she’s not at all prepared to face it yet.

All the way to his crypt she’s unsure about how to handle her confusing feelings. The closer she gets, the stronger is the urge to turn and run away as fast as she can, but she doesn’t. Of course not, because part of what she feels _is_ worry about him. Curling her hand into the inevitable fist already, she decides to settle on anger then; that’s probably what they both can deal best with.

But when she stands in front of the heavy door, contemplating for the first time ever whether she should knock instead of barging in, she realizes that it’s not anger that ties her stomach into a knot. What if he _is_ dead?

What if he isn’t?

She doesn’t barge in, but she doesn’t knock either. She compromises; she opens the door quietly, cautiously, not knowing what to expect. She doesn’t hear any sound, can’t tell at first if he’s in here somewhere or if she is alone. She closes the door behind her and tentatively calls out for him.

“Spike?”

She startles upon hearing her own voice, the barely concealed fear in it unknown to her ears. She swallows and steps a little further inside the room, her eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness inside.

She’s used to find him in here with burning candles scattered throughout the room, bathing the house of death in a warm, lively flickering golden light; one more of those many contradictions surrounding him. Now it’s completely dark, usually indicating that he’s out. But suddenly she knows he’s not. She couldn’t tell why she knows, she just does.

She curses silently that she doesn’t have a lighter when she knocks her shin against the arm chair he usually slouches on when he’s watching TV. She loses her balance and almost tumbles over it, catching her near-fall with her hands bracing on the chair’s back. When she notices the leather underneath her fingers she sighs, relieved - his duster. She fumbles for the pockets and, when she finds one, triumphantly fishes out his Zippo and flips it to brightness. She quickly lights two candles, takes one in her hand and searches the room.

He’s not here. She sighs; she’d hoped to avoid the basement; alas, no such luck. With the candle in her hand, she carefully climbs down and sets it on the first place she can find to put a candle on, which happens to be the ladder she just left. She doesn’t need the light any longer to find him; she can feel him.

She turns and slowly looks into the direction she knows him to be, hesitantly stepping a little closer.

Then she sees him. And she instantly knows why Anya sent her here.

Something inside her bursts, and she suspects that it has to do with the small flame of worry, nagging at the anger inside her ever since Anya was there, flaring up and turning into blazing fear that resolutely pushes the anger aside. The sight before her eyes leaves no room for anger.

Whatever happened to him was bad.

He is in the farthest corner of the room, huddled on the floor, his head buried between his knees, a small heap of nothing. She has no idea why she thinks that; but somehow she’s sure that’s what he wants to be. Nothing. Not here.

“Spike?”

She doesn’t think she ever said his name with this voice; low and almost tender, completely bereft of the usual sharp edge, and at the same moment she feels the anger punching its way back up for a moment. Why can he do that to her, making her voice all soft and _tender_ just by crouching on the floor? But the anger subsides as fast as it rose when she hears the small noises coming from him, noises barely cognizable as words, and she’s at his side in two, three long strides.

“No. No. Not here. Not…not her. Not with…”

She reaches out for him, her hand hovering over his shoulder, avoiding the touch at the last second. She’s afraid that something would shatter at her touch. Most likely him.

Maybe her.

She swallows.

“Spike?” Even softer this time, because her throat is too constricted to let more out than softness.

When he slowly lifts his head, her heart nearly stops. She has never seen eyes haunted like that. Eyes as dark as the deepest night, sunken in their sockets as if they were retreating to not see anything else ever again. There’s so much sadness in it, despair, so much _fear_ that she can barely stand it. She’s reminded at the time when Angel came back from the hell dimension, when he wasn’t much more than a raving animal; but this is so much worse; so much _more_.

So much less.

She feels the strong urge to gather him into her arms, on her lap, rocking him back and forth, humming and telling him that everything will be okay.

Except she somehow knows it would be a lie.

His eyes, unfocused and staring in front of him, begin to wander and suddenly meet hers, connecting almost audibly. It’s then that she knows, he knows she’s here. And now she just wants to run. Run and never come back.

She doesn’t move though, because something flits over his face, flickering in his eyes, that wasn’t there a minute ago.

Hope.

Somehow her presence provides him with the tiniest bit of hope, and she can see that he needs it. Needs it to survive, she thinks.

She finally closes the small gap between her hand and his shoulder and gently touches him.

The effect is horrible. He jumps to his feet in a flash, knocking her off hers, and dashes away from her, to the opposite wall. The noise he emits sounds like the screeching of a wounded animal, and his glance wildly scurrying through the room matches it exactly.

Buffy sits on the floor, frightened to the bone. What the hell happened to him? Her mind snaps back to the few moments before he dragged her out of the portal; he’d been different then too; talking in half-sentences, telling some nonsense. His eyes had been somewhat unfocused, but he hadn’t seemed to be completely out of his mind as he is now. He had known what he was doing, had saved her then.

Now he appears to be flat out crazy, and she’s paralyzed. She has no idea how to handle crazy Spike.

He doesn’t scream anymore; he is pressed against the wall, muttering quietly. Eyeing her warily, scared. Maybe that’s the worst; she thinks she never before has seen him scared.

“No touching. No…no touching.” His arms go up, a gesture of defense, protecting his head. Protects it against her, she thinks, and she shivers. He sinks back to the floor, gliding along the wall until he crouches again. His voice is muffled then, because he buries his face between his knees again. “Not her. She wouldn’t…No _touching_. You’re not supposed to touch. Only screaming and blood.” He bangs his head on his knees, muttering under his breath. “Bad things. Bad…bad. Cruel. All those…” He slams the heel of his hand against his head, two, three times, and falls silent, as if switched off. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he winds his arms around himself, and she wonders whether this is shelter or restraint.

Neither of them moves, not for a long while. Buffy has to remind herself to keep breathing, she’s that shocked. She doesn’t know what to do, feels so helpless. The only time she remembers feeling that helpless was when she found her mom dead on the couch.

But whatever it is that’s wrong with him, Spike’s not dead. He _can_ still be helped. Because it’s what he needs now - help. She thinks of the flicker of hope in his eyes, and she knows he needs _her_ help.

She crawls over to his side of the room on all fours, trying not to scare him away again. His head comes up, and she’s shocked all over again when she sees it’s wet from tears, and it’s just then that she realizes she’s crying too.

His eyes lock with hers, and all of a sudden he seems to be _here_ again. “Buffy…” he whispers, his voice filled with incredulity now, then changes into contempt in an instant. “You’re not here. You’re just…” He trails off again, his head falls back against the wall, his eyes close.

For a second there he was lucid, she’s sure about that. _She wouldn’t_ … _You’re not here._ He didn’t believe it though, thought himself hallucinating. Thought _she_ was a hallucination.

She understands.

He thinks she wouldn’t care enough to come. Not for him.

She feels her mouth go dry. Images of him lying in a damp alley, a bloody mess she left behind, assault her, and despite all her musings behind the portal, despite the insights she gained there, she’s not prepared for the feeling of regret overwhelming her. She swallows hard, then pushes it aside determinedly. She can’t dwell on it, not now. He needs her focused.

He has stilled, doesn’t even breathe, as far as she can tell, and it worries her almost more than anything else. For some reason he always breathes, just like she does; even in sleep.

She takes a closer look then, taking him in completely, and once more she’s horrified at what she sees. He’s so…thin. She can see each and every bone in his face, in his body, even though he’s dressed. Not even the day he sought out her help for the first time, all those years back on Thanksgiving had he been that haggard. It must have been days since he last ate.

Relieved, she realizes that finally there’s something she can _do_. She scrambles to her feet, rushing up the ladder and over to his fridge. She finds it empty though. She looks around in the dim light of the candle she lit earlier, and she finds what she’s looking for; a small plastic bag, filled with blood. She grabs it, snatches a glass from the board where she knows he places them and opens the bag.

She regrets it the second it’s open. It’s gone off, that much is clear from the stench. Since he has no sink in here, she opens the door and throws the bag out, hurls it as far away as she can, inhaling the fresh night air, fighting down the nausea that she is not sure just came from the bad smell. She leans her head against the door frame for a moment. What is she supposed to do now?

He needs blood, but she thinks he needs something else more right now. Why the hell does she have to be the one he needs it from? She doesn’t want to go down there again, to deal with whatever has gotten into him. She closes her eyes.

Blue eyes dance in her mind, pleading. And she hears a voice, _his_ voice, promising her to come back for her. And he came. She feels his arms again, his body, giving her comfort when she needed it most.

More than that, he was the reason she stayed away from the blackness as long as she did; he saved her long enough to eventually literally save her. Because she felt the need to tell him that she got it now, that she believed he loved her. Wanted to apologize.

She can’t run away now. She owes him.

When she gets down, he hasn’t moved. She steps over to his side, careful not to frighten him, letting herself fall on hands and knees again before she inches closer to him.

“Spike?” Again with the tenderness. Why can’t she let go of that tenderness? But he doesn’t react, as if he hadn’t heard at all, so it doesn’t matter. She considers reaching out for him again, despite his violent recoil last time she touched him, and decides against it. Only her hand is faster, lying on his shoulder before she’s even done considering. She receives no answer, though; elicits not the slightest movement. She begins to hesitantly stroke him, his shoulder at first and then, when he doesn’t retreat, her hand glides up to his face. She cups his cheek with her palm, an intimate gesture she had never done to him before, and he still doesn’t show any sign of recognition. That’s when she knows - right now he’s not in there. Whatever he’d felt, he’d have never let her do that without commenting; he’d have reacted somehow, by word or facial expression, anything. But there’s nothing. He’s not there.

She sighs; she might as well get him something to eat, then.

“I’ll come back for you, Spike. I promise,” she echoes his words to her. “I’ll fetch some blood and come back to you.”

She struggles with the urge to kiss his forehead, his lips maybe. She doesn’t. She breathes in deeply, bracing herself for leaving him so helpless. So alone.

So broken.

She’s appalled by how hard it is to leave him here. How much she wants to help him. How very much the reason isn’t that she owes him. Struggles also with the urge to punch his face in because she feels that way.

She staggers to her feet and darts upstairs, out of the crypt, as far as she can get before she slumps down on hands and knees and retches. There’s not much in her stomach, but she knows it’s not what her body wants to get rid of anyway.

 

                                   ***************************************

 

At that time of night the butcher shops are closed, but she doesn’t want to wait till morning. So she goes to Willie’s. She thinks that maybe human blood is better now anyway - more potent. She resolutely pushes the thought aside about how much this goes against anything she firmly believes and why the hell she’s still doing this.

She doesn’t care about the looks she gets when she orders a half pint of human blood and asks politely, or as politely as she’s capable of at this place, to bottle it for her. She certainly won’t explain herself, won’t tell the present demon population that Spike gets fed by her, implying that he’s sick and therefore vulnerable. Anyone can enter his crypt, and he hasn’t made many friends here by helping her. On second thought she realizes that her buying bottled blood is telling enough, so she decides to let it slip that she needs it for an experiment with a fledgling, conspiratorially grinning. She’s not really making friends with that either, but of course she couldn’t care less.

With the comforting weight in her bag, she walks the way back to him, unsure of what to expect.

When she comes down she sees with one glance that he is still sitting there exactly like she left him, like a statue. Her heart sinks; how should she even get the blood inside him? She can’t swallow for him after all.

But maybe the scent will wake him enough from the rigor. She kneels down beside him, fishing the bottle out of her bag. She eyes it, looks to him, and decides it may be easier to feed him with a glass like she wanted in the first place. She climbs upstairs and fetches the abandoned glass from earlier, pouring a few ounces of blood in it. She’s a little surprised that she’s not disgusted; she always was by the notion of Spike drinking blood, or Angel even, but oddly not now.

She descends the ladder juggling the glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, then settles beside him, placing both glass and bottle within reach. Then she turns to watch him.

Her heart clenches at the sight; he looks vulnerable, small somehow as he sits there, his eyes closed, no sign of life visible in him. He isn’t alive, of course, but usually he’s so vibrant that he appears more alive than she feels nowadays. But now, all the life normally buzzing within him seems to have drained out, leaving an empty shell. She notices with a feeling of unease that she wishes he’d open his eyes and look at her, just look at her and _see_ her.

Her hand rises to his head and cautiously smooths his hair back; his hair that is all curly due to the obvious lack of attention of the gelly kind, like she knows he hates it to be. She doesn’t know why he hates it; maybe he thinks curls are unmanly and not fitting to his Big Bad image.

She jerks her hand away when she realizes what she’s doing, that she’s trying to make him look a little more like he’d want to, and that she’s doing it to make him somehow feel better. But then there are those images again of him behind the portal. She can’t shake them, and once more they stir up emotions in her she usually wouldn’t ever allow herself to feel, not for him.

When she looks in his face again she freezes; a tear is gliding down his cheek, slipped out between his firmly shut lids, as if it overcame the walls erected to keep it in, gently pressed out by her smoothing hand. Or maybe just because he feels the loss of it, senses deep down in his non-responsive mind the terrible horror she felt at the tenderness coming from some hidden place inside her, flowing to him through her hand. Her eyes follow the glittering trace the small drop leaves, feels it strangely stinging deep down inside, at the same place where the horror made itself at home ever since she came to the crypt tonight. Once more that same hand comes up, gently wipes the tear away. “What happened to you?” she asks, so softly that no one not being right beside her could hear it. That no one could hear the compassion she feels, and the damn tenderness that snuck in again that she appears to be powerless against.

She grabs the glass and lifts it to his face, waiting for a sign that he’s aware of the blood right in front of his nose, but there isn’t any.

“Spike,” she says, still with that voice, “I brought you some blood. You need to drink it.” She sways the glass a little to stir up some scent, tempting him to open his eyes. Nothing.

The glass holding hand sinks down in her lap; what is she supposed to do now? She frowns; if she tried to pour it into his mouth, surely he’d swallow, right? But although his head leans against the wall, she probably wouldn’t be able to bring it inside; she’s afraid that it would just run down his chin. She hesitates. She knows the only way to make sure that doesn’t happen is to move him; to take him in her arms. She’s not ready to do that.

Even more, she’s not sure he is. Not after his reaction to her mere touch earlier.

“Spike,” she tries again, louder this time. Her free hand reaching for his shoulder, she shakes him carefully, just a little. “Spike. There is blood for you. Spike!”

Still nothing.

She sighs. She reminds herself to think of the way he was there for her when she had her breakdown. That helps. She slips her arm behind his shoulders and tugs him to her, letting his head tilt over her shoulder. Then she raises the glass to his lips, gently pushing them open with her thumb, and pours a little blood in.

“Swallow it. Please.”

He does. Once.

But her relief is short lived.

His eyes fly open, glimmering golden; his head jerks toward her, and she can see instantly by the look in his eyes that he’s there, right here with her. He licks his lips, slowly; when recognition dawns on him he slaps her hand away from him, sending the glass flying through the room, and leaps up, bracing his hand against the wall to steady himself.

“Buffy? What…” He looks around as if he didn’t know where he was, until his eyes catch sight of the shards of glass and the small puddle of blood slowly seeping into the ground. He breathes heavily, his eyes going wide, something akin to fear flashing across his face. She sees him forcibly change his eyes back to blue. “No. Not…no blood. No eating for me. Not blood. Bad. Badbadbad. Only bad…blood…Not…bad.”

Buffy, having jumped up in shock, too, reels back. Until she sees his face, sees the inner battle he is fighting. She tries to understand what he mutters.

“Spike? Look at me.” Her commanding voice reaches him through whatever haze clouds his brain and he turns to her. “Why don’t you want the blood?”

His face contorts in desperation, already knowing that he can’t make her understand. “Bad!” he exclaims.

Buffy’s brows draw together. “Blood is bad?” When he just stares at her, eyes wide with distress, her irritation only grows. “But you need it. It’s what you do, remember?” He winces. She steps closer when she sees the rejection in his face, then touches him at his arm. He shakes her off and hurries back from her.

“No touching. Never touching. Want to fool me. Not here. Not her.”

Her insides clench into a tight ball at the view of the vampire on the verge of panic, and then, all at once, she understands a part of what he’s saying, and the ball turns to stone.

“You think I’m not real,” she whispers, shocked. ”You think your mind plays tricks on you, and it taunts you with _my_ face.” He doesn’t answer, but she sees the confirmation in the expectant gaze he casts her, sees his shoulders hunch in anticipation of a blow, with words or otherwise.

She finds that it takes an effort not to reach for him. Again she thinks of the comfort he gave her with his body curled around her; but apparently her closeness is not what he wants right now. So she holds her distance to not scare him off. She tries to let the comfort she can’t give him otherwise resonate in her voice, but she’s not sure it works, since she has to push past the lump in her throat. And, of course, because she’s not really used to comforting him either. “I am real. I’m here, Spike. Can’t you tell? I’m pretty sure you can smell me. Isn’t that one of your vampire tricks?”

He doesn’t believe her. She narrows her eyes; he doesn’t trust his senses, that much is obvious. But why doesn’t he believe her words?

And suddenly she knows. She’s not like she usually is. She’s gentle, tender even. If he’s been hallucinating before as she thinks he has, why should he now trust a Buffy to be real that is so different from the one he knows?

She doesn’t think twice; she raises her arm and punches him, propelling him halfway through the room. Finds it oddly comforting, this punching him; finally feels on familiar ground for a brief moment. He lands on his ass, his back against his bed. He looks at her, the shock on his face slowly fading, until he hesitantly stands up, his eyes now shining bright with recognition and incredulity. “Buffy?”

“I told you. I’m here. And I want you to drink this.” She doesn’t want to think about the implication of him recognizing her for real only when she hurts him; yet, she feels the pang it causes deep down in her belly, never mind that, just seconds ago, she felt comforted herself by punching him. She hurries to snatch the bottle and approaches him. But he still shrinks back from her.

“Can’t. No blood. Not…not good. Bad.”

Her patience begins to wear thin. She closes the gap between them determinedly, but once more he tries to slap the bottle out of her hand. She’s faster, though, this time, and draws her hand back in time. She’s very close to stomping her foot when she shoves it toward him, trying to force it on him, until she flies through the room and finds herself on the opposite side.

“No!” he shouts.

She jumps to her feet. “Why the hell not?” she yells back. “You’re starving! A few more days like that and I’ll have a conversation with a mummy, only without the bandages part. And the tearing your brains out through your nose part, because there will be nothing left but a shriveled raisin. And I don’t…” She trails off, at a loss for words. What could she even say? That she doesn’t want him to dry out? That she wants him to be here, all Spike-like, being the pain in the ass he always was?

That she hated when he left her in the other dimension? That she needs him to be with her, because he is the only one that can make her feel anything?

That right now, he mostly makes her feel terrible fear of losing him?

“I promised to kick your ass when I’m free again,” she eventually remembers. “It’s no fun if you’re all weak. Or dust.”

She can see that he’s wavering. That he contemplates her words, lets even a tiny smile slip on his lips for a second. But then he shakes his head. “Don’t want to,” he says quietly, and then, “don’t deserve to.”

She’s taken aback. Her eyes go wide, and she feels her throat constricting and fresh tears welling up from deep inside her, but she pushes them back. “What?” she croaks; it’s all she gets out. Her mind races. What does he mean, he doesn’t deserve to eat? She stares at him, waiting for him to explain, because she doesn’t understand, but he only stands there looking at her, silent. She swallows, then lifts her hand that is still holding the bottle a bit; her last try. “Please,” she says as quietly as him, but he shakes his head.

She walks over to him, feeling his gaze on her, but not burning like it used to. She gently lays her hand on his arm, and this time he lets her. She locks her eyes with his, and suddenly she knows, this is not the right time. He’s as open as he can be in this strange state he is in, but whatever it is holding him back, right now no amount of words or actions on her part will convince him to drink the blood.

She breathes in and out, anxiety mingling with reluctant acceptance. “I have to go. Have to send Dawn off to school. But I’m coming back. I’m not giving up.”

His eyes, those eyes that showed so much confusion, so much fear, such deep despair this night seem completely calm and knowing now. She feels connected to him through their eyes like she never did before, and she feels a shiver running down her spine.

He says one more word, but somehow this one word proves to her that there’s still a chance to convince him; that there’s still a part of him that wants her help. “Why?”

She straightens. She knows something between them has changed. She can’t put it into words; she doesn’t even know whether or not she wants it to be that way. But she knows it’s true, and she knows that the answer to his question is part of the reason why it did.

“You wouldn’t.”

After a long while he nods, just once, barely perceptible. But she knows he knows, too.

And then she leaves.

 

 

tbc...

 


	9. The pain that you feel

** Chapter 9 **

**The pain that you feel**

 

 

 

Hope is a funny thing. It flares up like the blaze of a flamethrower, bright and blinding, making you feel all tingly inside, but it’s vulnerable like a candle in the wind, and it fades away quickly if it doesn’t get enough nourishment.

Hope is what Buffy gave him.

She came for him, and she found him. He knows he wasn’t easy to find; she had to dig deep, hitting and kicking and poking and scratching at his walls of insanity, hurting herself in the process. But she didn’t cave, until she found him. Found him in the deepest, blackest hole he’s ever been in, grabbed him and tore him to the surface, fought hard to hold him there.

But then she left, and as soon as she did, the flame of hope in Spike’s chest began to fade.

For a little while though it still warms him.

The memories tormenting him got a little less prominent the minute he became aware of her presence, for the first time since he left her at the cemetery.

He long since suspected that she didn’t shield him from the memories haunting him then, because those are always there; were there when he held her, too. He doesn’t need to see, feel, hear what he has done over the decades to feel the pain; it’s so deeply etched into his conscience, he’d never forget a single kill. So, whatever happened there, it wasn’t that.

He thinks that maybe her soul, linked to his, helped him deal somehow. He pictures his soul as a newborn baby, not capable of any coherent thought, overwhelmed by the world around it, not capable of anything but crying. And then there was hers, all grown up and experienced, soothing his new soul, singing a lullaby and gently rocking it to calm it down.

Giving him a moment of peace with his memories.

But then the connection was cut, and his soul was left alone with the agony, still poorly equipped to live through this.

He never knew that one could hate, really hate themselves. He knows better now. It’s why he decided not to feed anymore. It’s not even about punishment; he has done so much evil in the past, it simply doesn’t feel right for him to live if all his victims weren’t allowed to. But he knows himself well enough to know he’d never be as strong as he’d need to be to off himself, not as long as she exists. Even with everything he knows about how much she despises him, how much it disgusts her to be with him, he just couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing her again. So he had no other choice than starving himself to dust, if that even works, or hoping she would end his pathetic life.

But then she was there. It took a while to accept that she really was, that the concerned eyes, the gentle voice, the tender hands really belonged to her. It was much easier to believe that his mind was mocking him than to trust his muddled senses. To believe that some higher being decided it to be funnier to prolong his torment, prompting him to feed, than to think she could behave that way toward him, care enough for him to even show up in the first place.

He doesn’t know what it was that convinced him otherwise then. It certainly wasn’t her words, telling him that she _was_ real. It wasn’t even the punch she threw, as much as he knows that it was done for just this purpose. He’s not quite sure, but he thinks it was her eyes that did it, the expression flashing through them just the moment before sending him flying. The bewilderment with just a hint of despair, the disbelief and even a little hurt that he, who could recognize her by her scent even in a crowded room over a long distance, wasn’t capable of telling her apart from a hallucination.

He was angry there for a while, that she apparently didn’t want to fulfill his wish to get killed by her, didn’t even want to leave him be to starve himself. She had always wanted to get rid of him, and now that he wanted to grant her wish she didn’t let him. But then, when she yelled at him, something changed in her face. Something appeared there that he’d never seen before, not concerning him anyway.

He’d seen something akin to this only once. The night he found her on the steps of her porch, crying because her mom was sickly. He’d wanted to kill her that night, but then she’d had this expression on her face, this…helplessness.

This was what he detected on her earlier too, in her face, in her gestures, in her stance. She really wanted him to drink that blood, wanted it so badly that she not only went and fetched it for him, but tried to force it into him, against his resistance. Pleaded with him even.

He remembers a time when he lived for the illusion that, one day, the Slayer could love him. He snorts; he understands now how very wrong he was. She knows him better than anyone, knows exactly what he is. A monster. She told him again and again what she sees in him. An evil, disgusting thing. And she was oh so right.

And yet…Tonight she didn’t want him dead. He can’t comprehend what is different now; for her it’s only days ago that she left him bleeding in the alley. That night she didn’t care the slightest whether he was strong enough to get to his crypt before daybreak or not. But not tonight. Not now, when he finally saw things her way, understood that killing him was the right thing to do. Just then, when he craved her stake in his chest, she refused, as fiercely as she used to resent him. And seeing her feeling helpless in getting him to live suddenly melted something within him. Her tears, the shed and the unshed, fell on the stocks he put himself in and began to slowly undo them.

When the Slayer actively doesn’t want him dead, fights for him to stay alive – what does that mean for him? That he’s worth saving? He doesn’t have to focus on the images in his head to seriously doubt that.

Even if suddenly all those impossibilities in the world would happen like hell freezing over, rivers running uphill and Buffy liking him, even then he wouldn’t deserve to live. Not with everything he’d done.

What then?

He has no clue. But he knows that his past haunting him isn’t as agonizing as before, subdued somehow by the warmth the small flame still provides. For the first time since leaving the cave with his soul he thinks that maybe he could learn to live with it. That maybe he’ll find a way to atone.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be strong enough, though. Doesn’t know that he’ll ever find a reason to be strong.

He’s not ready yet. But the flame of hope Buffy ignited within him, tiny as it is now, keeps burning in his chest. Even if he doesn’t know what he hopes for, what he should hope for.

She won’t give up on him, she said. _You wouldn’t_.

“Bloody right, you are,” he mutters, stoking the flame with his words a tad.

But then, as if his victims’ ghosts felt him slipping away, his conscience strikes back. A wave of agony rolls over him almost as powerful as in Africa, sending him to his knees, a shivering bundle.

The wave also rolls over the tiny flame, blowing it out as quickly as a candle in a storm.

Leaving him in the cold again.

Hope’s a funny thing.

 

                                   ****************************************

 

 _Have to send Dawn off to school_. Yeah, right. As if her sister needed her to do that. Only when Buffy enters her house and Dawn is already up, munching on her cereal, it occurs to the Slayer that her sister and Willow did just fine without her for the weeks when she was away, and also for the last days when she was back and didn’t care.

“Buffy?” Two astonished faces turn to her, apparently neither of them having even known that she left the house last night.

Her sister’s face closes off instantly when Buffy shows herself in the kitchen; Dawn is obviously not yet prepared to forgive her, neither for wanting to abandon her the night she wanted to turn herself in, nor for not at all caring about her during the last days. Buffy sighs inwardly; it hasn’t been all butterflies and rainbows since she came back from the dead, she knows that, and apparently she made it even worse now. It’ll take some time and effort to make things right between them.

Willow of course is the opposite of Dawn. She almost trips in her haste to welcome Buffy back from wherever she has been, her face shining brightly - too brightly, Buffy thinks. A bright mask complementing her own _I’m-fine_ mask. Telling everyone loud and clear that everything is okay, even when they all know that, in fact, nothing is. She bends over backwards to offer her a coffee, some cereal, a puppy, the whole world. Buffy snorts. It’s just like all those months - Willow means well, but doesn’t really look. Suddenly it occurs to Buffy that maybe she’s just helpless, as helpless as Buffy felt only a few minutes ago; knowing she had to help Spike, but didn’t for the life of her know how.

She knows she should stay here with them for a while; see Dawn off to Xander’s car, giving him a hug while she’s at it, then sit with Willow, drinking a coffee with her, appeasing her worries about herself a little. Tell her about Spike. But she can’t. She’s tired all at once, so tired. She just wants to fall on her bed, pull the sheets over her head and shut the world out.

She excuses herself, mumbling something about having fought with vampires the whole night, not bothering to look whether or not they believe her.

Once in her bed she realizes that her hope for releasing sleep was futile; of course it was. Too much is swirling around in her mind, and the sheets over her head shut out only the light, but not the racing thoughts.

She hears the other girls leaving almost at the same time and turns in her bed. Hears the clock ticking and turns again. Hears the garbage disposal and turns. Listens to the clock, counts the tick tocks, turns again when she loses count at about 400.

After what feels like a whole day, but turns out to be just a little more than an hour she jumps out of bed. It’s futile; sleep eludes her anyway, she might as well get up and do…what? Something distracting her from the whirlwind in her mind? She knows from experience that nothing will work. Whatever she chose, her thoughts would go on circling around the one thing she doesn’t want to think about at all.

Stupid Anya. Why did she have to come to her, send her to Spike? Destroy the oblivion she cocooned in the days before? Only that it wasn’t really oblivion. Even before she knew something was up with him, even then she was worried. Beyond pissed, but still worried. Now she knows at least that he’s alive.

She startles when she realizes that she was relieved finding him alive. Cringes when she recalls the fear she felt in his crypt, fear that dissolved the moment she knew he was there. Not dusty there, but undead there. In bad shape, undoubtedly, but alive. Not willing to feed though. She frowns. He was so thin. Had he been so thin when he rescued her from the demon dimension? She doesn’t quite remember; she was preoccupied with not going to hell. She wonders how long it takes for a vampire to starve himself to death. She recalls the feeling of his bony cheek under her palm and shivers; suddenly the image of the vamp girl feeding on Riley pops up in her mind. She looked more like a skin covered skeleton than a vampire, and she finds that Spike wasn’t that far from that state. She didn’t see it that way earlier because she focused on other, more pressing things.

Panic suddenly surges through her; what if he dies from starving while she tries to catch some beauty sleep? Do vampires dust from starving? She doesn’t know. She dimly remembers that Giles once asked Spike about it, that Thanksgiving years ago, when he, too, hadn’t fed for days; but she can’t recall Spike’s answer.

She just chides herself to stop worrying about him now when she notices that she already put her boots back on. When the hell did she even go downstairs? She doesn’t know and she finds that, screw this, she doesn’t care. She’s out of the house and halfway back to the cemetery before she can decide otherwise.

She makes a slight detour to pass by the butcher’s shop, buying some pig’s blood; she knows he needs a lot more than she brought him last night, and in case he changed his mind and drank what she left behind she’ll have this for him.

Her heart pounds in her chest when she stands in front of the crypt again. This time she doesn’t hesitate though, she just opens the door and enters. But she holds her breath, anxious about what she’ll find this time.

The second she sets foot in the crypt she knows something is going horribly wrong. And then she hears it; noises from downstairs, sounds of furniture thrown against walls, breaking into pieces, snarling and growling. At first she thinks it’s Spike, having a fit. But then she hears the sickening sound of cracking bone, and she recognizes voices in-between the gnarling and grunting. Then, most horribly, a whimper. She never before heard him making a sound like that, but she knows without a doubt that it’s him.

Her stomach drops. But this is slayer business, this is what she’s good at. She’s downstairs with not much more than one leap. It’s dark there, no more candles are giving off their dim light. But it’s daytime, and although Spike had covered the small windows, a little diffuse light seeps in from above, enough to let her see that there are four demons attacking the weakened vampire. She also notes that he doesn’t even bother to fight back, and what the threat of the demons couldn’t, his lack of defense achieves - she’s paralyzed for a second, chilled to the bone. It’s just then that it eventually registers that this is what he wants.

He wants it to end.

A cry that she doesn’t know exactly if it’s in rage or in fear bursts out of her, and then she’s only fists and feet; kicking and punching she whirls through the crypt’s basement, following the demons fleeing upstairs at the sight of a ferociously fighting slayer, grabbing a sword from Spikes weapon trunk and beheading one of the monsters in one fluid move. She’s relieved to see that it’s one of the kinds that just dissolve into nothing with a poof; that way she doesn’t have to deal with a body.

The other three demons have fled the crypt, but she doesn’t care to follow them; the need to check on Spike is more urgent. She races down again, the sound of his cracking bones still vivid in her mind. The memory tightens her throat.

Without the candlelight, it takes a little while to make him out. When she eventually detects him lying on the ground behind his bed, her stomach flutters in fear at his sight. For a moment she is sure that he’s dead, until she remembers that he’d be a pile of dust then. She rushes to his side, her hands trembling when they reach for him.

“Spike.” Her voice sounds strange, constricted, and it’s just when she hears it that she realizes that tears are streaming down her face, have been even while fighting. The knowledge that he wants to die left her completely unsettled, so much so that she can’t even be angry at herself for being so scared to lose him. Everything in her yearns to give him something to hold onto, give him back a piece of his will to live.

He looks terrible, more so than before she left not two hours ago. His face is bruised all over, one of his eyes swelling quickly, the cheekbone underneath probably the one she heard breaking. But it’s nothing compared to what she sees in his one eye that he cracks open when she says his name again, her hands stroking, his chest, his hair, his cheek.

His one-eyed gaze meets hers, and a moan escapes her throat. What she sees there is nothing but tiredness, weariness and disappointment.

He’s disappointed that he survived.

She feels so helpless; she has to do something about it, but she has no idea what. She only knows she can’t let him die, can’t let him leave her. She’s shaking from the urgency to find a solution, and from the overwhelming fear of what will happen if she won’t find anything. A memory leaps at her out of the blue, a memory of a dank alley, of her voice and his. _Just let me go…I can’t. I love you._

She gasps.

No. That’s not it.

It can’t be.

And suddenly the fear she felt explodes into something more violent, into rage as overwhelming as the fear was. How dare he make her feel so helpless, make her understand so well all of a sudden why he acted the way he did that night, when she was perfectly content with blaming him for not understanding her? When in reality he understood completely her will to end it once and for all, was desperately trying to find anything to stop her, find something for her to hold onto.

Looking for anything, just to keep her with him.

Just like she’s doing now.

_You’re not going in there…_

“Don’t you dare die on me,” she yells, and since she can’t beat him for fear of dealing the final blow, she slumps down on his chest, clutching him, digging her fingers deeply into him, shaking with sobs. “Don’t,” a whimper, _don’t leave me alone_. It’s the only thing she gets out for a long time; once, and again, and a third time, only the one word, never what she really means. She doesn’t know whether he heard it or not, didn’t really say it to him anyway. But then his hand is on her back, shaking too, stroking carefully, as if he could hurt her with his gentle hand. Stroking until the sobs finally recede, stilling on her back then.

They lay like that for a long time, neither of them moving, until her nose catches a coppery scent wafting from his chest and it suddenly occurs to her that she might be hurting him, beaten as he is. She lifts her head to look for injuries, but can’t see enough in the darkness surrounding them. She carefully disentangles herself, whispering, “I’ll be right back,” and rushes upstairs to fetch the lighter and a candle.

When she comes back down, she lights two more candles and sinks to her knees by his side again, only to wind her arms around his chest to haul him up to his bed. He moans softly; she doesn’t know if in pain or in protest, but he lets her pull off his boots anyway. When she begins to tug up his shirt though, he grabs her hand and drags it away.

“Don’t be stupid, Spike. I only want to …”

“No,” he interrupts her softly, his eyes still closed.

But he’s weak. Too weak to assert himself against the will of the Slayer, worried as she is, and determined to _do_ something. She gently peels his hand away from hers and proceeds to lift his shirt. When he again reaches for her hand, she whispers, “Please, Spike, let me.”

He opens his eye and watches her for a second or two, then, helpless against her pleading, he sighs and lets go of her hand, his eye slipping closed again.

When she’s done pulling up the shirt as carefully as she can to reveal his chest she gasps. She is the slayer, she has gone through many fights, has seen a lot of wounds. But rarely, if ever, has she seen a wound like that. His chest looks like it’s been torn apart, as if an animal had dug its claws in and tried to rip big chunks out of it to get to the bones. Again and again.

She swallows. It must hurt like a bitch, and she had clutched him there to keep him from leaving.

“Did those filthy demons do this to you?” she asks, her voice barely concealing her anger. She just begins to contemplate belatedly to try to find them, to kill them for what they did to him, when he slowly shakes his head.

“Not them,” he croaks.

She stares at him, the sense of foreboding creeping through her veins at the view of his resigned face. “Who?” she whispers, not sure if she really wants him to give her an answer to that question.

He doesn’t.

Not as far as she knows at least.

“They are…too much,” he says instead, “wanted them out.” He says it so softly that she has to strain her ears to catch it. She frowns; is he still with her? He’s making no sense again.

“Who’s ‘them’?”

“All of them.”

She still has no idea who he’s talking about, she’s not even sure he knows. For the umpteenth time since she found him last night, her throat constricts to the point of merely letting through enough air to breathe. God, he looks so small, so…defeated. What the hell happened to him?

She wants to patch him up, do something to make him feel better. But she thinks he’s not strong enough right now. So she carefully pulls his shirt back down; she’s tempted to tuck him in until she remembers that he doesn’t get cold. She cups his cheek instead, and she doesn’t know if it’s more for his comfort or for hers.

“You really need some blood, Spike. When I give you some now, will you drink it?”

Could she sound a little more like a petulant child? Geez.

But there must have been something in her voice reaching him, because he cracks his one eye open again, considers her for a minute, and then he nods, just once.

She jumps up like one of those tin toy frogs, fetches the bottle that still lies exactly where she abandoned it before leaving earlier. She helps him sit up a little in his bed, one arm securely wrapped around his middle, careful not to disturb his wound. She is surprised when he glides onto her chest, leaning heavily against her, letting her support his weight, but she doesn’t complain. She lifts the hand holding the bottle, but before she reaches his mouth he grabs it and holds it still for a moment. He breathes in and out deeply, as if bracing himself for the inevitable, then he slips his fingers under her palm, and she understands. He wants to do it himself, needs to maybe. Making it clear it’s what he wants. She’s just not sure who he has to reassure, her or himself.

Again he breathes, and then he brings the bottle to his mouth and drinks.

When she sees tears rolling down his face, she knows who he meant to reassure. And she knows it didn’t work.

He still doesn’t want it.

He did it for her.

_Just let me go…I can’t. I love you._

Her heart clenches.

 _Don’t die on me…_ He couldn’t. He loves her.

She brushes her thumb over his cheeks and wipes his tears away, while her own drip onto his curly hair.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

He downs the whole contents of the bottle, slowly, with many pauses. When he’s done, she takes the bottle out of his hand and lets it drop to the floor. He opens his eye, looking up at her without saying anything, but he doesn’t need to. Buffy slips her hand in his and feels his fingers instantly closing around.

“I’ll stay,” she says, watching him sighing in relief and closing his eye.

And then, finally, she feels his body relax against hers, drifting off to sleep.

 

                                  ******************************

 

When he awakes it isn’t with a start as was so common for him. It never is these days. It’s more of a slow rising to the surface of reality, until at some point he just knows, this is it. Too blurred are the lines between sleep and consciousness, too similar the nightmares and the imprints in his mind from his past haunting him in wakefulness.

This time though, something is different.

Not that his victims weren’t there, lurking, waiting to pound on him like wild animals. Other than after saving Buffy, they are; sneaking around him, whispering, casting him accusing looks, showing off their wounds; hurting, tormenting, deadly.

They just don’t pound.

Spike lies still, completely still, as if afraid he’d provoke them if he moved, somehow. He watches them, and they stare back. But they don’t pound.

That has never happened before. Sure, there were times when he’d beat them back for a while, claw his way to lucidity, banish them in the background to focus on reality, long enough to do what needed to be done. But they never before stayed away from him without him violently pushing them.

Now they just seem to wait. Not silently, of course not; but quiet enough for him to look closer. For some reason, for the first time he feels strong enough, secure enough for braving this, looking at them.

And for the first time, he does.

He sees a man wearing a hat and a grey suit, and Spike remembers. Even though he looks similar to most of the other men in the fifties, wearing his clothes almost like a uniform - the same kind as all the other office gits wore at that time - Spike knows exactly who this is.

It had been 1952, and they had been in Philadelphia. Spike had never liked that city for some reason, too many Quakers maybe, for his taste, but Drusilla had dragged him there again and again, although she knew about his dislike. Probably because she knew. Unsurprisingly his mood hadn’t been the best, and above all they’d had a quarrel over a stupid thing he didn’t even remember, and he’d stormed out to vent his anger.

When he’d run into that man he hadn’t thought twice; his hand had been on the prat’s throat within a second, pressing his windpipe shut with an iron grip. He’d dragged him around the corner, away from the well-lit street into a dark alley. He’d played a little with him, punched him, kicked him, drank from him, all the while he kept his hand at the man’s neck, pressing and releasing, never giving him time to scream, but letting him suck just enough air into his lungs to stay conscious. Where would’ve been the fun otherwise? He’d reveled in the fear he tasted in the guy’s blood and he saw in his terrified widened eyes, until he suddenly had enough and just quickly drained him dry. He’d tossed him aside like garbage and gone to find someone else to play with, and had never thought of him again.

Until now.

He feels tears trickle down his cheeks, but he doesn’t move to wipe them away.

He looks at a little girl instead, four or five years old, maybe. She has dark curls cascading over her shoulders, only there’s not much to see of their color under all the blood covering them. Blood that runs down her face, coming from the wound on her head where Dru had cut out a part of her scalp, because she wanted that hair for one of her stupid dolls and wanted it to keep growing, so of course she needed the scalp. He had fetched the girl for her, as a present, because he wanted to see the awe on her face, in the gaze she gave him then.

When his dark princess drank the girl’s blood, the little thing hadn’t known that she was about to die. She had just known that she was in more pain than she’d ever thought possible, and that she was alone, and that she wanted to be with her mother.

They had shagged right beside the corpse.

Oh god.

Spike isn’t aware that he didn’t just think it, but said it out loud, in a choked whimper; not until he feels gentle fingers brush the tears away, and a hand gingerly stroke his hair.

That’s when he remembers that there was something else different to his waking up. He’s not alone; _she_ is here. That’s why he felt secure enough to face his very own demons. Oh god, how can she even be here, with him? How can she stand to be around him, with everything he has done? Can touch him, hold him in her arms?

How can she be so gentle with him?

His eyes fly open and he sits up with a jolt, out of her arms, away from her.

She can’t. She doesn’t know what he did. Well, of course she knows; she read and heard enough to know. But she didn’t see it. She never saw him killing just for the fun of it. Had she known, _seen_ , she never would have come near him.

And she really shouldn’t.

He staggers to his feet, away, away from her. He’s still weak, though, his head dizzy, his legs wobbly; and there she is again, catching him as he slumps down, holding him, sitting him back on his bed.

“I’ve got you.”

Her voice is soft, so soft. And he is weak, so weak, that he leans against her again, even though he knows he shouldn’t. Just because it feels so good being with her, smelling her scent, hearing her heart beating, feeling her strong arms holding him, her soft hand stroking him.

Not to be alone anymore.

“No,” he says, his face wet from tears he cries for the poor git in Philadelphia, for the dark haired girl. For so many others he’s killed and played cruel games with all over the world.

She shouldn’t be holding him. Something as light as her shouldn’t even touch something as dark as him.

“Shouldn’t…”

Too quiet. He knows it was too quiet.

“Spike?” she asks, warily, clearly waiting for something jumping out of the box.

He breathes in, trying to squirm out of her arms. “Shouldn’t touch…not something so bad…”

God, why can’t he say it right? She needs to understand.

“What?”

She loosens her hold on him just a little, but enough for him to get his hands up and shove her away. “Too dark for you!” he yells, realizing just now that he didn’t shove her, but himself away, landing on the ground with a thud, his wounded chest and the broken ribs on his back screeching in pain.

She’s silent. When he opens his one good eye and looks at her, she sits on his bed, shock on her face, but also compassion, so much compassion for _him_.

She shouldn’t feel that either. Not for him.

And then her face changes and the Slayer emerges; determined, ready for battle.

He knows instantly that he lost this one before it even started.

She kneels beside him, hauls him into a sitting position and leans him against his bed. Then she shifts, until she kneels in front of him between his legs. She cups his face with both hands, tilting it up to catch his gaze.

He closes his eye, but of course, he can’t refuse her commanding, “Look at me.”

He looks, and then he listens.

“I don’t know what happened to you, and right now I don’t really care. What I know is that for some reason you want to get rid of me. Yeah, well, too bad. This is my opportunity for revenge, for all the times I wanted to get rid of you, and boy will I savor that. I ought to practice this smug grin of yours, maybe.” She takes a deep breath, apparently not feeling like grinning at all, least of all smugly; then she goes on. “Anyway, I won’t leave you alone quite yet. Those demons probably will come back to finish what they started as long as you’re weak. And no,” she cuts him off before he gets to say something, “I won’t let them.”

He can see her pressing her lips together tightly then, something akin to fear crossing her face. The notion of him wanting them to finish their work obviously still throws her; but she regains her composure quickly.

“What I also know is that you need more blood to get your strength back and heal. Here’s what is going to happen. You will drink some more blood each time that I say so. I’ll stay here with you, and as soon as you are strong enough to walk that far, we go to my place where you can heal properly, without someone wanting you dead. Well, except Xander, of course, but who cares.” She lifts her chin, challenging. “Okay?”

Her eyes are on him, pure steel, willing him to agree. She doesn’t need his consent, of course. If he didn’t accept her suggestion, she’d just punch him unconscious and carry him to wherever she needs him to be. He’s weirdly touched that she still asks for it

He doesn’t understand why she came or why she stays; but he’s grateful that she does. It’s easier when she’s here. Although a part of him very strongly rejects her presence, knowing fully well that by no means does he deserve it; there’s another part that understands that she’s fighting for him - needs to fight for him. And even if he can’t understand why, he can’t let her fight alone. He never could.

It’s the least he can do, letting her help him regain his strength, enabling him to fight his battles alone again. Because ending his pathetic unlife without her consent, that’s out of the equation, no matter how painful it is to live. Bloody ponce that he is, he couldn’t do that; not since she made it so blatantly clear that it’s not what she wants.

All the more since he didn’t let her do it either, no matter how painful hers was to live.

He sighs and nods, defeated, but also a little relieved.

Because instead of giving him what he craved, she gave him everything he needed to keep on fighting.

She’s here, with him.


	10. Go on living

** Chapter 10 **

**Go on living**

 

 

 

Each time she says so, he drinks, just like he agreed.

That’s the easy part.

During daylight they can’t go anywhere, but Buffy hopes fiercely that once the sun sets, Spike will have enough of his strength back to be able to walk to her house. Seeing how weak he is, she gives him blood every hour, but she’s still not convinced that it’ll suffice.

He trembles from the effort to climb back on his bed, and she wonders how he’d managed to hurl her across the room earlier. And that was before he’d fed.

He’s getting a little better over the course of the day, even though he doesn’t take as much blood anymore as he did the first time; he always looks as if he’s getting sick after just a few sips, and after casting her an apologetic glance he averts his eyes and shoves the mug away from him. Still, his bones begin not to stand out as prominently as when she first saw him last night. His cheekbones don’t seem sharp enough any longer to cut her hand should she stroke him there.

Which she doesn’t; not anymore.

But even though his eyes aren’t as sunken in anymore after a few feedings, they never lose the haunted look. And seeing that never fails to frighten her to the bone.

It fades a little, sometimes, when she manages to pull him out of insanity long enough to comply with his promise to drink more blood. It’s always the same - at one point he focuses on her, recognition sets in, and then something else briefly flares within the blue: hope. A childlike hope, just as though he believed her to kiss it better, whatever this ‘it’ is. But then it’s quickly replaced by a resigned determination that makes her see that he still doesn’t want this. That he only agreed to get his strength back for her.

She knows that, just as she knew it the first time he drank. She knows she’s once more selfishly taking advantage of his love for her, but right now, she simply doesn’t care. She needs him to stay with her, and she’s much too scared to question her reason behind that need. So she’ll take what she gets and postpone caring about the why.

So yeah, getting him to eat is the easy part.

Much harder is the time in-between. When recognition dwindles away and craziness takes up residence in his mind again.

She snorts; crazy - such an easy word for such a hard thing to grasp, she thinks. A simple word to classify the unknown happening in someone’s mind that nobody can see but themselves. Buffy is sure this is what’s happening here; Spike sees things, people, events that she can’t, and she gets to see only his part in the play they stage.

He plays his role with all his heart. He yells at those he sees, asks them questions and ducks while listening; he threatens and shies away, draws himself up to his full height, every inch the Big Bad, and he cowers down on the bed, hands protectively over his head. He laughs and he cries.

That’s the worst. The moments when he’s actively participating in whatever play he’s on aren’t that long, only brief interruptions of the long, silent ones when he’s zoning out, shutting himself in. When he’s mostly cowering somewhere, on the floor, on his bed, anywhere. He stills completely then, doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t even breathe. Just stares blankly.  And then, more than once, he weeps. Silent tears stream over his face, dripping down on his chest. She very much doubts that he’s aware of them.

Watching him like this makes her feel like sitting in the middle of a blizzard, whirling around, but frozen to immobility, ice cold inside and outside. Powerless against the elemental force.

She’s seen him hurt before, of course; lots of times, body and heart. Mostly inflicted by her, also body and heart. But never before she has seen him like this - desperate, defeated, utterly destroyed.

He seems so unlike the Spike she has known and been annoyed by for years. The one who is always fighting, fangs and fists and heart. The one who never gives up, snarky, incessant, self-assured.

And yet, at the same time, what she perceives of him feels more real than ever before.

Almost as if he’d stripped off the layers he lets the world see of him, leaving the true core of his self lying open, fragile and incredibly vulnerable. So much so that sometimes she’s afraid to touch him; she thinks he might crumble to dust underneath her fingers. But she knows he needs her, needs her to be here with him, so she overcomes her fear and shows him in the only way she knows how - by touching him. His arms, his shoulder. But never his face; she thinks she could burn him, somehow.

He doesn’t shrink away from her anymore, but he doesn’t always react to her touch either. Yet she can feel that deep down, in a way she doesn’t understand, he still knows it, knows that she’s here. That somehow he keeps fighting his demons because she’s here.

Once when she lays her hand on his arm she feels him trembling under her fingers. It’s the only time she pulls him in her arms and strokes his hair, murmuring senseless soothing words, more for the sound of it. Just like she would do with a scared child. She feels him pressing against her, his head against her chest, breathing heavily, shaky, a hair’s breadth away from sobs. Her mind flashes back to the day when they got sucked into the portal, when he held her, and how much it helped her to focus on his breathing rhythm. She breathes in and out, in and out, deliberately; and slowly, slowly he calms down. He says her name, just once, a sigh, a prayer. Then he stills again.

After that he doesn’t interact with invisible persons any longer. He appears more like a silent observer of what is going on in his mind. He doesn’t walk and talk anymore; he stays at her side, takes hold of her hand and doesn’t let go anymore. He still weeps from time to time, but other than that, he remains calm.

Each time he drinks, she offers him her hand afterward, and he always takes it; wordlessly, just a look in her eyes as if to assure himself that she wants this. And then clutches it like a lifeline, so fierce sometimes that she’s grateful for her slayer strength.

She cries, too. It frightens her how very much her heart aches for him. Even though she still has no clue as to what this is about, but it must be something horrendous, something deeply disturbing if it can affect him like that.

For a while she tries to figure out what it could be, tries to puzzle the fragments to a picture; the fragments she heard him saying, yelling, crying. She gives up quickly; it doesn’t make any sense she’s able to decipher.

She focuses on him instead, on feeding him, soothing him, holding him.

Sometime during the day she thinks that this is probably the most bizarre day she’s ever had, and that speaks volumes, seeing that she’s been the Slayer for six years now.

And yet, she realizes with a pang, those past hours were the time that felt the most real ever since she came back from heaven.

She really, _really_ doesn’t want to think about what that means.

 

                                   ****************************************

 

As soon as darkness falls they leave the crypt.

When he was done downing the last of the blood she still wasn’t sure he would make it to her place. He was still so weak that once again she wondered how long he actually hadn’t fed before he’d saved her, but she knew that she’d have to wait to get an answer to that question.

He’s stronger than she thought, though. She knows it’s partly because he thoroughly hates to be weak and musters every ounce of strength he has left to do his part. He still has to lean on her the whole way to Revello Drive, and more than once his knees buckle and it’s only her arm circled around his waist that prevents him from slumping to the ground.

They don’t talk, not one word, not until they reach her place. Then he suddenly straightens considerably and stops walking.

“You,” he begins, pausing to breathe in and gather energy. She turns and sees him watching her, uncertainty in his eyes. “You want me to stay here?”

She wonders whether he didn’t get it earlier, when she told him her plan to come here, but she‘s sure he was lucid and understood. It hits her then that he just can’t believe it; can’t let himself believe that she would bring him into her home to heal. A wave of shame rolls over her; why should he believe? She had never before behaved like that toward him - concerned, caring. Human. She swallows the lump building in her throat down and turns away, pulling him with her toward the house. “Yes,” she says firmly, “I do.”

“Right then.” She feels him nodding and trudging on beside her.

She hears their voices before she opens the door, and feeling Spike wince at hearing Xander talking, she knows he does, too.

“Hey, guys, I’m back.”

Within seconds they are surrounded by the gang, throwing their ‘thank god you’re okay’ and ‘where have you been?’ and ‘Spike?’ and ‘what happened?’ and ‘what’s _he_ doing here?’ at them in a never ending stream of words, their faces changing from relieved to askant. Buffy feels the strong urge to shout and throw them all out, or at least flee out of this, and she can tell from the rigidness in Spike’s body and his fingers digging into her shoulder that he feels the same, if not worse. She squeezes her eyes shut and fights the anger down; of course they were worried when she had just vanished again. They had every right to be.

She inhales and braces herself for the inevitable confrontation. “I’ll explain everything, I promise. Let me please get Spike upstairs, he needs to rest. I’ll be right back.”

She didn’t really think that she’d get away with that, did she?

“Spike? Upstairs? To rest upstairs? What do you mean, Buff?”

It’s Xander, of course, grabbing her arm to stop her on her way to the stairway. She whips around as sharply as she can with her other arm still wrapped around Spike’s waist, all but batting her friend’s intruding hand away from her. “What do you think I mean, Xander? I _mean_ , Spike needs to rest, and I intend to give him a bed to do so properly. And the only possibility I can think of is upstairs, so I’m bringing him there. Or are you offering a bed in your apartment?” She sees Xander step back, repulsion appearing in his face, and she snorts. “I didn’t think so.” She pulls Spike a little tighter, trying to ignore the beaten expression on the vampire’s face, and proceeds to go upstairs, relieved that for now, no one objects anymore.

Halfway upstairs she hears his voice, quiet, tired. “Buffy…a cot in the basement would do…”

Belatedly she realizes that she didn’t even think about where to put him before Xander got in her face; yet, now that her friend forced her to justify her decision, she doesn’t want to back down. “Shut up, Spike,” she cuts him off, more harshly then intended. When she feels him tensing, she adds a lot gentler, “It’s okay. I want you to be in my room; it’s easier that way, okay?”

He doesn’t answer, but nods once, and with a slight feeling of unease she recognizes the truth of what she just said.

In her room she helps him lower himself down to sit on her bed. His eyes glide closed as soon as he sits, and he looks even paler than before if that is possible. She can see that he’s exhausted, but he hesitates to lie down.

She briefly considers pulling off his boots, but thinks that this time he would probably be embarrassed if she did, so she sits down beside him and gingerly lays her hand on his thigh.

“Spike?” His eyes open and he turns to look at her. “I want you to lie down and rest. Do you want me to help you with something?” She catches his eyes following hers to his shoes and sees him flinch slightly.

“No. I don’t need…I can do this, Slayer.”

She nods. “I’ll be down to fetch you some more blood. And I guess I’ll have some explaining to do. Just holler if you need anything; I’ll be back soon.”

He looks like he wants to say something, but he just sighs after a moment. “Rest, Spike,” she says softly, and then she leaves.

 

                                   ******************************************

 

Buffy descends slowly, not at all in the mood to defend herself for bringing Spike here. She doesn’t need anyone to tell her how weird and stupid it is; she knows that all by herself. But one brief thought about the man sitting on her bed, looking so exhausted from the walk over here…She knows she’s doing the right thing. Whatever happened before, he needs her help now. And who is she to deny him that, after he saved her only a few days ago? After he caught her when she broke down in the portal?

She stalls, sneaking into the kitchen to warm him some blood, only to realize that, of course, there is none to warm. How could she have forgotten about having no vampire supplies in her fridge? Stupid. Now she has to ask Willow to buy some at the butcher’s.

“Dawn volunteered to get blood for Spike.” Willows voice startles her; so much for stalling. Then she frowns; the witch’s voice was surprisingly gentle. Almost as if she understood. ”Don’t worry, Tara went with her. Dawn called her to come over when you didn’t show up all day. She came just after you...you know…”

Buffy turns around and watches her best friend, finding that she can’t tell anything from what she sees in her face. Suddenly it registers with her that Willow misinterpreted her frown; she’s supposed to be worried about her little sister, alone out there in the dark, on her behalf; well, on Spike’s behalf actually, but still. A flash of well-known guilt courses through her, tasting like bile on her tongue, because she didn’t even think of being concerned before Willow mentioned it.

The witch begins to fidget with her fingers, stepping to the stove in a rush and grabbing the kettle.  “Do you think he’d like to have some tea first?” She’s nervous, and Buffy wonders whether it’s due to the vampire in her bedroom or to hoping for Tara to come back here.

Then again, Buffy doesn’t really care. If she has to face a confrontation about her behavior, she really wants to get this over with as fast as possible.

“Thanks, Will, but I think we should talk first,” she says, raising her chin determinedly. She walks over to the living room, and as soon as she catches sight of the storm in Xander’s face she knows she’ll need all the determination she can muster. She settles on the chair across him. “I guess I owe you an explanation.”

“Oh, you think?” Xander snaps. “Let’s hear it then, why you decided to first vanish for a whole day and, to top it off, let the evil undead reside in your _bed_ now.”

The angry, accusing tone of his voice pushes a button inside her. For a few seconds, all she can think about is how satisfying it would be to hear his bones cracking beneath her fists, and she breathes hard while shoving that image aside. She knows a big part of his anger is fear for her, but also a little for himself - fear to lose her.

“Haven’t you seen him, Xander?” She’s not very successful in keeping her anger out of her voice. “I don’t know what happened to him, but he’s…kinda sick. He didn’t feed for a while, and he’s weak.”

“And that is a problem because? Not to mention why the hell this is _your_ problem! He’s evil, Buffy! You should’ve staked him long ago, and instead you want to attend to him, so that he’s strong enough to, what, one day hurt people you love again? Why do you even care?” He spits the words at her, just like she had expected, and shrugs off Willow’s calming hand.

Buffy stands, because if she didn’t move her legs, she would for sure move her arms with fists at their ends. “You’re right, he’s evil. But you didn’t care about his evilness when you let him babysit Dawn last summer, did you? It didn’t matter to you one bit when it was convenient to forget about it. He helped us against Glory, and he helped you all summer after that, fighting his own kind. You didn’t care then that he’s evil either. Don’t you think that he’s earned a little help from us in return when he needs it? Who’s the monster here, Xander? The one who helps without asking for anything in return or the one who denies any help at all?”

The silence after her outburst is deafening, and the dumbstruck expression on Xander’s face slowly shifts into one of hurt. Buffy breathes in and out, shakily, knowing well that she went too far. And yet, strangely she’s not sorry, because she knows she is right. And it is good to hear herself say these words, because it helps her to see the truth in them, a truth she now knows she notoriously denied.

“Buffy,” Willow interrupts the silence quietly, “you know that’s not what he meant. He’s just, you know, concerned.”

Buffy whirls around to face the witch. “No, he’s not, and yes, he meant it. He hates Spike.”

“Don’t you?” Xander’s voice is surprisingly calm now.  Buffy slowly turns and stares at him, wide eyed. Doesn’t she? She knows she did once, and she always thought she never stopped, but is that right? She swallows. Would one be scared to lose someone they hated? So scared that they broke down like she did last night? And when exactly had ‘Spike dying’ turned into ‘losing Spike’ anyway?

Willow spares her the answer. “It’s not about hating or not hating Spike, Xan. Buffy’s right, he’s done a lot of good for us and he deserves our help if he needs it.”

“In her bed? What makes you so sure that this whole weakness thing isn’t an act to get exactly that? It’s what he wanted all along, but maybe Riley was right and it’s what she wants, too and all this is just to convince u…”

A fist eventually shoots out against his temple and stops him midsentence. His head snaps aside, but he’s been in enough fights to be used to the pain. He regains his composure fast, rises to his feet and stares at Buffy, his eyes blazing with fury now. “Fine. It’s your choice, Buffy. Don’t cry on my shoulder when he inevitably does something nasty and hurts your feelings. Again.”

And with that he storms out, slamming the door shut behind him.

The girls stare after him, shell-shocked.

“I hit Xander.” Buffy’s voice rings like thunder in the stunned silence, even though it’s tiny at best, as if just now realizing what she’s done. Willow’s hand is on her arm then, and it feels good; it reassures her in a way she hadn’t felt for a long time. Not from Willow, that is, because it’s the most honest thing she received from her best friend ever since she brought her back. She can see it in her eyes, watching her with a compassion she didn’t expect after hitting Willow’s oldest friend.

“He had it coming, Buffy. I love Xander, and I understand where he’s coming from. And I know that part of the reason for his rant is that he is concerned about you and about your judgment. But that doesn’t give him the right to talk to you the way he did.” She sighs, and then she drags her friend with her to the kitchen. “I need some caffeiny goodness now.”

They silently lean against the sink after Willow made some coffee, sipping at their mugs. After a while the witch asks cautiously, “What happened, Buffy?”

Buffy doesn’t know what to say; she doesn’t want to talk about her confusing feelings toward the vampire in her bed, because talking means acknowledging them and she doesn’t want to have them in the first place. She settles on innocuous information then, involving no emotions at all.

“He saved me, Will. We got sucked into that portal together; he left it when I couldn’t, but he came back to get me out of there. I have no clue how he did it, but he was already sick then. Only I didn’t realize it, because everything happened so fast, and I passed out, and when I came to again, he was already gone.” She doesn’t mention the images she got shoved into her brain somehow; she feels that this is too intimate, as though she somehow would betray him by speaking of them to anyone, even as cruel as they are. She tries to ignore the knot that forms in her stomach at the thought that she could’ve helped Spike so much earlier, if only she had cared, if only she hadn’t been paralyzed by the shock and the anger she’d felt about them.

She gulps down a mouthful of coffee before she goes on. “I found him last night in his crypt, and…Willow, he was so weak. It must have been days, if not weeks, since he last ate. Do you remember that Thanksgiving two years ago? How pale and thin he was then? Compared to last night, he looked like after a vacation at the beach back then. He didn’t want to feed, and after I left him this morning, he got attacked by demons. They tried to kill him, Will. I couldn’t leave him there to die, right? Not after…” And just like that, emotion sneaks in her voice, as much as she intended to leave it out, cracks it, makes it tremble slightly like her insides do for what feels like days.

Willow regards her calmly, and after a moment she shakes her head. “No, I guess you couldn’t. Not after he just saved you, and not after everything he has done in the past months. But Buffy, I have to agree with Xander on that one thing - why here? Why not care for him in his crypt?”

Buffy shrugs. “It’s more comfy here, for both of us. Plus, I couldn’t leave him alone as long as he can’t defend himself, but none of you knew I was there. I had to come here, and so I decided it was best to bring him with.”

“Into your bed?”

Buffy hears the doubt in Willow’s voice, the hint of an accusation. But she can see that her friend tries to not feel the way she does, tries to trust her judgment. She swallows down the anger that is beginning to rise at the witch’s intrusion in her decision, hesitant as it may be. “Look, it’s just easier that way. He…kinda needs me close. I don’t know what happened, but he is calmer when I’m with him.” She feels tears brimming in her eyes as she thinks about the past hours, but for once she succeeds in willing them back. “You haven’t seen him. He’s hurting, Willow. I can’t…I can’t leave him alone like that when I can help him feel better. I just can’t.”

Willow wraps an arm around her shoulder. “And you shouldn’t. It’s what you do, helping those who need it, regardless of what they have done to you. I should know.” A sheepish grin scurries across her face, but she gets serious again quickly and gently sweeps a strand of hair out of her friend’s face. “Do what you think is necessary, and I’m going to help you as much as I can. Okay?”

Buffy looks at her and is more grateful than she would have expected. It feels good, having her best friend’s support, and she wishes things with Xander had been that easy, too.

Before she can say anything else, the back door bursts open and reveals Dawn, dangling two blood bags in front of her.

“Blood delivery service,” she announces, “do I get a tip?”

Almost as though being a vampire herself, Buffy shifts her focus instantly toward the blood, not even noticing the disappointment flickering in Willow’s eyes at Dawn’s unaccompanied appearance. She snatches one of the bags, opens it carefully and pours some of the blood into a mug. After reclosing the bag, she places the mug into the microwave and both bags into the fridge.

“I brought more than usual. Spike looks terrible; I guess he needs a lot to get his strength back. What the hell happened to him, Buffy?”

“Thank you, Dawnie.” The microwave makes its done-‘ping’, and Buffy takes the mug out. She casts her sister an apologetic look. “Will is going to explain it to you, okay?”

A shadow slowly settles on Dawn’s concerned features, and Buffy sighs inwardly. Once again her sister feels neglected, and once again Buffy doesn’t have the time or the strength to care; not right now. She’s relieved when she sees Dawn swallowing down her disappointment for Spike’s sake. “Yeah, of course,” she replies with a glance at the mug in Buffy’s hand. “Go.”

With a grateful smile Buffy turns and leaves.

And is appalled about how glad she is to go back to him.

 

 


	11. Findings

** Chapter 11 **

**Findings**

 

He sits on her bed for a long time after she left. He tells himself that he can’t bring himself to pull off his boots, that he’s too bloody tired. He knows it’s not the whole truth, though.

He lets his gaze wander around the girlish room of hers; he hasn’t been in here for a long time. Not since the night he brought her to the blood whore house where soldier boy had been for his special kind of suck job. He’d often been up here during the longest summer of his life, but he never cast a glance over the threshold - it would’ve hurt too much. And he never once before so much as even touched her bed.

And now she wants him to lie down on it.

But not like he always dreamed she would want him to. He sighs.

“Yeah. Not gonna happen, mate,” he mutters, silently putting the remnants of this old delusion to rest.

He’s surprised that it doesn’t hurt as badly as he supposed it would. It leaves a well-known ache in his chest, of course it does. He loves her, and he will always wish for being loved back, with everything that comes with it.

But where the constant ache lives, deeply embedded in his heart, there’s also something else now - a calm gratefulness for being here at all, brought to her room by her to help him. He really needs her help, he knows that. He’s not even sure whether or not he’d still be alive without her intervention. But to say that he’s surprised that she gives him what he needs from her so willingly, so determinedly even, would be putting it mildly. A part of him is almost scared that she’s fighting for him so fiercely, because he has no idea how to handle that.

Mostly though he’s just grateful.

He fought this fight for such a long time on his own; it seems like a lifetime to him, even though he’s aware that it was only some weeks, and he is beyond exhausted. And nothing ever changed since he began fighting. Nothing, until she showed up.

No, actually until he linked their souls. Right then it was the very first time that he felt like he could breathe again, so to speak. The first time that the ghosts of his past didn’t assault him, for as long as she was with him.

He’s not complaining. He knows he deserves this. More than a century of slaughter and mayhem more than justify his misery. And yet…

Since she first found him in his crypt, since she first got through to him, through the fog of his cruelties, something profoundly changed. It feels to his muddled brain that with her presence she keeps the ghosts haunting him at bay. Without her, he got lost in his gruesome past, feeling nothing but horror, guilt and remorse - stinging, biting, burning. It’s been like standing surrounded by all his barbarous deeds, seeing what happens but being unable to stop the terror, until all he could think of was closing his eyes, trying as desperately as it was futile to shut it all out, because he couldn’t change a bloody thing.

With her by his side it’s different. Her being there, caring for him, fighting for him, helps him to face the monster that was him, gives him the strength to look harder, to remember and regret. It’s the only way for him to give the lives he’s taken a meaning; looking at the pain he caused, acknowledging each one of them as a single human being. It hurts so incredibly he can barely stand it. It threatens to overwhelm him again and again, and often it’s just too much. But every time he falls back into insanity, ready to drown in there, she reaches for him, tears him out and holds him steady. All that is necessary is her touching him, because if she can still touch him, he is still here. And as long as he’s here, there can be a tiny chance to redeem himself one day.

And slowly, slowly he begins building roots in reality again.

Sitting in her room now feels a little like being wrapped in her presence, even when she isn’t here. It’s she who wanted him to be here, who fought for this. He heard her fighting Harris for this, hit him even. After all those months that she didn’t dare to tell her friends about him, now that he’s insane she stands up for him. Only weeks ago he would’ve given soddin’ everything to see that, would’ve rejoiced in the sight and gloated about it; but now he oddly finds he’s just deeply touched.

He carefully runs his hands over her pillow, caresses it, but he still doesn’t lie down. He can’t. So he still sits like she left him when she enters her room, holding a mug giving off the scent of warm blood. He stares at it, feeling his stomach constricting like before, a wave of disgust rushing through his body. It’s not the blood disgusting him, he’s still a vampire after all; it’s what he did to get it for all those decades. He knows it’s kind of stupid, but in his mind, the notion of drinking blood is firmly attached to Spike the monster.

And he really would love to kill this guy.

“Spike.”

Her voice is so soft, so warm. He squeezes his eyes firmly closed for a moment, his jaw clenched, and swallows convulsively. Then he reopens them and looks up, tentatively, anxiously. Their eyes meet and lock, and he shivers at what he sees there. It’s the same warmth he heard seconds ago, a tenderness he never saw there before, and he knows _she_ sees something else entirely when she looks at him than he does.

It’s always been like that. Regarding him, her view was always very different from his. But now, for some reason, the tables seem to have turned.

Right now, she doesn’t see the monster he is. She just sees Spike.

And for the first time since he left the cave in Africa, for one fleeting moment, he _is_ Spike.

 

                                   ********************************************

 

Buffy tears her eyes away from his with an effort, and it almost hurts her physically, almost stings deep in the back of her skull. She tries to chase away this weird feeling as if the world had shifted in its axis, and with it that God damn tenderness that once more has swashed over her. She steps over to her bed and sits beside him, her hand gripping the mug tightly.

“Hey,” she says softly; apparently she can’t get rid of this softness inside her. But how could she not be all soft, after what she saw in his eyes just seconds ago? It pierces her heart in a very uncommon way, unknown, unwanted, and yet spreads warmth throughout her whole body.

It’s been a myriad of emotions she saw there, as his eyes convey so often; but mostly she finally saw Spike in them, the Spike she sought for ever since she found him as a heap of nothing in his crypt. He’s here with her now, still full of fear and uncertainty and desperation, but undoubtedly Spike.

What throws her though is that he looks so bare right now.

So human.

She never saw him that way before; whatever they did, she never could forget that he was a vampire. A vampire who she liked more than she cared to admit sometimes, who she trusted to a certain degree, but a vampire nonetheless. A thing. Evil from the core. Doing some good things lately, but not out of conviction; only held back by the chip in the beginning and, later, by his twisted feelings for her.

It rattles her deeply, defying everything she believes in, to see him appearing so human all of a sudden, and for a moment she averts her eyes.

She briefly considers whether it’s only her view of him that changed so much, but dismisses the idea with an impatient shake of her head. Her view _did_ change in the portal, but additionally something is definitely different about him, and she opens her mouth to ask him again what happened to him.

When she looks up again though, she instantly decides otherwise. He’s trembling from exhaustion, and he’s getting paler by the minute. He needs blood and rest, just like she told the others. And he needs both now.

She offers him the mug, feeling oddly naked without it to hold onto when he takes it with shaking hands and slowly begins to sip the blood.

“You haven’t lain down.” _Oh, that’s a good one_ , she scolds herself; _a really sharp observation._

He gives her a look over the rim that says exactly the same, and she feels relief tugging the corners of her lips to a wary smile; that glance too is finally some real Spike.

But then he lowers the mug, looks down to the floor in front of him and shrugs. “Couldn’t,” he says quietly, “don’t belong here.” The smile on her lips fades.

For a moment the helplessness is back, then she forces action-girl inside her to take charge. She takes the now empty mug out of his hand and places it on the night stand.

“Look, I want to clean the wound on your chest, and it’s easier if you’re lying down.”

His hand jerks up in front of him, covering his chest, protecting it, his head turning aside to evade her look. “No.”

She sighs. “Again?”

“It’s not hers…yours to see.” His eyes flicker over the wall beside them; he’s embarrassed, she realizes surprised.

Buffy gently lays her hand on his and gingerly pulls it back. “Spike, I saw it already. It looks nasty, and I have to clean it, so that I can see if you need stitches. Please.”

That gets to him; he could never resist her plea. He lets her lower his hand, but he snorts. “Vampire here. Don’t need stitches.”

Her eyes dart to his face, and once again her stomach churns. There was clearly disdain in his voice. Buffy swallows, hard. This is just not right. Spike always loved to be a vampire. He felt alive for the first time after his turning; he’d told her so himself, and she knows damn well that he meant it. He _can’t_ loathe what he is. There is something seriously wrong with him, and almost of its own volition her hand rises to cup his cheek, and she’s not surprised to feel it wet.

“God, Spike…” she whispers, but then she pulls herself together and gently pushes him back, arranging him on her bed to get access to his chest. She doesn’t care anymore about his boots; she just wants to finally have him lying.

He tries to suppress it, but a small moan still slips out of his throat; his broken ribs hurt, and so does probably the wound. His eyes fall shut as soon as his head touches her pillow.

He lets her tug up his shirt without further protest now, doesn’t react to her hissing when she sees the shredded chest again. She goes to her bathroom, fills a bowl that she always uses to tend her battle wounds with warm water and grabs a cloth and some dressing material. When she comes back, she sinks slowly to the edge of the bed.

She knows it will hurt like a bitch to wash the wound, but she can see that it hasn’t started to heal yet. She hopes it’ll help to clean it, and she’s sure it hurts like a bitch anyway.

She dips the cloth into the bowl and carefully begins to wash him. The more blood and scab she wipes away, the clearer she sees the extent of the wound, and the more horrified she becomes. At several places it goes so deep that she can actually see the ivory color of his ribs.

“Dear God, what happened to you, Spike?” She doesn’t really ask him, and she doesn’t expect an answer. So she’s a little startled when he speaks, his voice low and casual, as if saying nothing of interest.

“Wanted it out.”

“What?” She feels a shiver run down her spine.

“Didn’t need it anymore now, did I?” The same quiet, disinterested voice as before, but in Buffy’s ears it rings like thunder. She stares at him, eyes wide with horror at what slowly seeps into her conscience; her hands still, frozen.

“What are you saying?” she whispers, her vocal chords not obeying anymore.

He briefly opens his eyes and looks at her, then locks his pained look behind his squeezing lids again and turns his head aside, away from her. “Too much, ‘t was too much. And she was safe. Too much…” He pauses, and then his eyes fly open and his head whips around to meet her gaze. “But you…you’re here. Still need it to…” He breathes in, heavily, shaky, and holds her eyes with his. Tears are streaming over her face, but she barely notices.

“You did this,” she whispers, shocked. She doesn’t know why he mauled himself, she only knows he did.

“Well, yeah.” There’s surprise in his voice, as though it only registers now with him that she didn’t know before that it was him. He regards her silently, traces her tears with his eyes, and suddenly his face takes on an expression of urgency. He lifts his hand and takes hers, holding it tight. “Buffy. Don’t. I’ll keep it. I can do that. With you.”

Her face contorts in fear and pain. “Spike…oh my…Why?”

He raises his other hand to brush her cheek, wiping away the tears. “Don’t,” he repeats, “’t’s okay. ‘t’ll heal.”

And then the small trace of fighting spirit that had briefly flared in his eyes vanishes again; he’s simply too weak. His hand sinks back on the bed beside him, his lids close again. She feels the hand holding hers go limp. Within mere seconds, he’s fallen asleep.

Buffy sits frozen for a long time, holding his hand. Her eyes are rooted to his face, which for the first time since she found him looks…peaceful.

Inside of _her_ though rages a storm.

Why did he do this to himself?

She thinks of Riley, who dug into his chest to get the initiative chip out, but he hadn’t looked half as bad as Spike. But the vampire hadn’t a chip in his chest; why then would anyone in his right mind maul themselves like that? Did he try to scratch his heart out? She knows he wanted to die after all.

Then again - he isn’t in his right mind, is he? He’s acting crazy ever since he came back to the portal.

Buffy forces her racing heart to calm down. Is he really not in his right mind? He clearly fights something she can’t see, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. And only because what he says doesn’t make any sense to Buffy, it doesn’t mean that it’s senseless, right?

When her hands stop shaking she goes on cleaning the wound. Even though she only uses her free hand, leaving her other in his, it’s easier now that he’s asleep; she’s not so afraid anymore to hurt him. He winces a little a few times, but he doesn’t wake up. She carefully patches him up then as good as she can without disturbing his sleep and tugs his shirt down again.

And then she sits and watches him, watches him and is aware of the tenderness still lingering inside her, softening her gaze and her heart. And watching over the vampire’s sleep, the vampire who mauled himself, who is still way too thin, she finally gives up her resistance – she finally begins to think.

She’d refused to think about anything that wasn’t slayer stuff or how to behave as she was expected ever since she’d been brought back. Thinking inevitably would’ve led to feeling miserable; so she’d mostly put on her mask of bravery and happiness and worked on shutting out the yearning for heaven, no matter how much it cost her.

The only times she could let herself relax somewhat and not pretend had been, weirdly enough, when she’d been together with the vampire in front of her. From the first day on he knew the truth, because she had confided in him. He’d been kinda safe; she didn’t have to care about hurting him with her sadness, because he was just a vampire - just a soulless demon, a thing. A thing couldn’t hurt for someone else, right?

Yeah. So much for that.

She knows now, after the long hours being stuck in the portal, how wrong she was; knew it probably even back then, deep down. But it was convenient to think that way, and she really needed those times, so she selfishly took what she could get. Of course it helped that Spike didn’t seem to mind; he was happy to provide her sanctuary, happy to get a small, but genuine smile out of her once in a while.

And here’s the thing, she thinks - he did. He succeeded where everyone else didn’t, despite their extensive efforts: he got her to smile. Not that she’d been happy then, but for brief, flickering moments, she wasn’t as miserable as usual either.

Her eyes roam over his sleeping form, considering his still so skinny body, then travel back up to his face, resting there. She feels the warmth rise in her chest.

Rest. That was what he had given her from the beginning. She remembers her first hours back in life, can still feel the heat of the fires on her skin. Hell fires. She’d felt the blazing heat, but it had left her frozen. She’d been convinced to be in hell; where else could the heat of fire only get you cold?

Then she had to go back to doing her duty immediately, slaying demons, hacking and slashing. No rest for the wicked. And then the first encounter with her friends. Staring at her, huge expectation on their faces. Expectation that would never leave them in the months to come.

Finding the tower was a relief - hope to get back to peace, hope to escape. Until Dawn showed up. Sweet, needy Dawn. Again with the expecting, though she doesn’t blame her sister. She was just a kid, having lost her mom and her sister in the space of just a few weeks, and she was trying so hard.

And then he was there, and for the first time she felt a slight sense of calmness. Felt like being allowed to be just silent. To just be.

That’s how it started.

But like she refused to think about everything else, she’d also shied away from analyzing his continued ability to take away her misery for short moments. Had taken it as a given, had sought it out frequently; had relaxed more and more around him. But had refused to think.

Then, thanks to Sweet, she had spilled the beans; her friends suddenly knew about her secret, and even after telling them she found she didn’t care. Her brain kept telling her that it must be horrible for them, and all it did to her was make her annoyed, because Spike had been right. They couldn’t deal. Somehow dealing was also _her_ duty, not theirs. And she still felt numb.

And she wanted so badly to feel again. Because she remembered happiness and sadness, fear and anger, and she knew it had been a better life then, filled with all those emotions, good and bad. So she turned once more to the one person that had been able to elicit a smile sometimes, only now she wanted to know. So she pushed it and kissed him.

That had been the end of what had begun to hesitantly become a friendship.

Because it had felt good. She had felt good, had _felt_ , as long as it lasted. But the very next moment, she had remembered that she wasn’t supposed to go to the evil, bloodsucking fiend to feel good; and sure as hell she wasn’t supposed to kiss the evil, bloodsucking fiend to feel good. A smile here and there she could ignore; a kiss she couldn’t. So she ran.

And hated herself for finally feeling something kissing Spike of all people. Not being with the people she loved helped her to feel again, but being with Spike. She hated him and hated herself, but couldn’t let go of the rare times she finally succeeded to _feel_. So the spiral of hatred began, and over the weeks she forgot how good she once had felt with him.

Had she let herself look closer, had allowed herself to think, she would’ve seen that he hadn’t lied to her. That he _had_ changed, that he _did_ try. And maybe she would’ve seen that _still_ he was the only one giving her moments of peace; moments when she briefly forgot about her hatred and her distaste for him, for herself; when she was almost relaxed again.

Alas, she hadn’t wanted to see. Seeing it would’ve required acknowledging that he stirred feelings of a different kind in her, too. And she couldn’t afford that.

Couldn’t afford to deal with the possibility that once more he was right, that maybe she was a creature of the darkness. She had enough to deal with.

She only once reluctantly conceded that sometimes she liked him. She couldn’t even admit that she had come to trust him, although immediately after her denial he eagerly proved the opposite.

What happened in the portal and the insights she’d gained there were quickly washed away by the fury about the images she was sure he somehow had planted into her mind. Not even the fact that it had happened while he’d come back to get her out could outweigh the flood of cruelties he had damned her to see. She latched onto the fury with all her power; it was what she was used to, what shielded her from dealing with the unwelcome wish to be held by him that she’d had in the portal. Helped her ignore the nagging worry lingering somewhere deep inside her. The worry that surged to the surface when Anya sent her to look after him.

That, to her utter shock, turned into blazing fear the moment she found him.

She snorts; all that thinking about the past, only to finally come to the point that she admits to herself that within a heartbeat she was not worried, but terrified of losing him.

She’s terrified. That’s a feeling, right? _Yay me_ , she thinks, rolling her eyes. Yeah, but it’s so not the feeling she wants to have. Not the being terrified, but the being terrified of losing _him_. Because…what does that mean?

Her hand rises, her fingertips cautiously touch his cheek, so soft that she barely can feel it. She thinks back to the moment when she realized that he refused to drink because he wanted to end his unlife, at what she saw in his eyes then, and again she feels something deep down in her belly freezing. The thought of never touching him like this again causes her hands to move, to lay her palm against his skin, feel more of him.

Why the fucking hell is this scaring her that much? She tries to imagine losing one of her loved ones. Losing Willow, maybe. No, bad example. Deep down, she’s still too mad at her for yanking her out of heaven without asking. Dawn then. Yeah, that scares her too, but Dawn’s her sister, that kind of doesn’t count. But even so, she realizes with a pang, it’s not as terrifying as…yeah. Probably because her sister is not in any imminent danger of dying.

And then, out of the blue, the memory of the moment after the demon attack crosses her mind, the moment she realized that he’d wanted them to end it and she broke down on his chest, a sobbing mess, pleading with him not to die on her.

_Just let me go…I can’t. I love you._

She remembers that she instantly dismissed the comparison to the night in the alley as impossible. It just _couldn’t_ be.

Now she reluctantly allows herself to contemplate it.

Does she…

Her hand still cupping his cheek jerks away, every nerve in her screams to run away.

God, she can’t even think about finishing that thought; it’s too frightening.

Only her other hand still connected to his and the knowledge about the soothing effect it has on him keeps her from storming out, to leave those confusing feelings behind. She breathes in, then out, in again and out, the steady rhythm supporting her trying to calm down her racing heart a notch or two. She forces her hand back to his face, forces herself to let the tenderness engulf her, to let it flow through her hand cupping his cheek again; focuses on feeling the connection between them, at both her hands. Those hands that she suddenly can’t prevent from trembling.

Then she tries again.

Does she…love him?

She swallows. A week ago she would’ve laughed her ass off at the mere suggestion, had she been in a good mood then; otherwise she probably would’ve used her fists.

But now?

She doesn’t know.

She wants to scream, _no, of course not_! But she knows it’s not so easy. The fear for him that never stopped to clench her heart since she found him is too strong, too real to be ignored. There are feelings for him. As much as she’s still repulsed by the notion of her falling for him, falling for a vampire _again_ , as much as she hates him, hates herself for even having to contemplate it – there _are_ feelings for him, and for the first time, she’s honest enough to admit that much. But is it something remotely close to love? Could she love someone without a soul? Someone who didn’t feel any remorse about all the evil he had done over more than a century? Who had slaughtered thousands of people without batting an eye and didn’t regret it?

But he loves her. And he had been so good to her. Had saved her in the Bronze, even though she’d ran away when he’d sung to her and later had once again humiliated him for the singing. Had cared for Dawn, protected her; had felt guilty for not saving her on the tower. And the list could go on and on. And all that without a soul.

The thing is - he _did_ change. Did stop killing humans. _The chip stopped him_ , a fierce voice inside her head interrupts her train of thought, _only the chip_.

But she’s still firmly, if shivering, on the honesty train out of denial land, and she shakes her head; no, that’s simply not true. He could easily have gone and find someone capable of getting it out, had he really wanted to. Or adjusted otherwise; getting minions, making them hunt for him.

Could’ve gone with Drusilla.

But he didn’t. Instead he confessed his love for the Slayer, offered even to kill Dru to prove it. Even if this wasn’t the romantic love declaration every girl dreams of, it undoubtedly was the truth. And ever since, he always only had helped her, ready to go down swinging for her, to protect her sister. All the while knowing perfectly well how she felt about him.

How could it still be the same person as the vampire that couldn’t wait till Saturday to kill her?

And - doesn’t it have to count for something? Doesn’t his willingness to change for her, to give up everything he defined himself by, overweigh the past he couldn’t undo however much he regretted it? It can’t be easy to forfeit his inner nature, even less so without getting anything in return but broken noses and disgust; she sees that now, and a hot wave of shame colors her cheeks.

She watches him closely, tries to block out the knowledge of Spike the evil killer, tries to see just _him_ , the man lying on her bed whose hand she still holds in hers, whose cheek she still cups gingerly. Who she suddenly finds herself unable to let go of. Would she feel differently about him if she didn’t know about his past?

And even if so, could she ignore this past, his lack of remorse for his deeds? She sighs; she doesn’t think so. How could she ignore that all the good he’s done he didn’t do because he felt it was the right thing to do, but because it was what he thought she expected him to do? That he still hasn’t a moral compass of his own? That she could never fully trust him, because everything he does hinges on her?

But maybe…despite every fiber in her screaming in horror at the thought, at the sheer wrongness of it - could she be falling for him anyway?

He certainly made her feel affection for him she hadn’t felt before, and wouldn’t have anticipated either. The Spike who had been with her in the portal had given her a feeling of safety she hadn’t even known she’d yearned for; had chipped away at the walls she’d built around herself for years, had finally broken through and given her the first real feeling since coming back, opening the way for more tentative emotions.

So – could she? Be falling for this Spike, despite his past? For the one she tried to ignore for such a long time, the one who had changed, for her?

Eventually she lifts her hand a little, smooths once again the detested curls back.

She really doesn’t know. All she knows is that she can’t lose him. He’s the one person helping her feel; she needs him, and he needs her, too.

She listens to the shallow breathing that lifts his chest slightly with each breath he takes in and lets it sink down when he exhales again. A timid smile sneaks on her lips, lighting up her eyes for a moment, too; for whatever reason he’s doing this breathing-in-his-sleep thing, she’s relieved he’s doing it again. It crept the hell out of her when he went completely still while sleeping earlier, and it weirdly makes him look more relaxed than before. And decidedly less dead.

Her hand curled around his squeezes lightly, and she slowly feels a hint of peace weaseling its way into her, a small trace of something she hasn’t felt since she’s been torn out of heaven.

Suddenly she longs to be closer to him, and even though a part of her is once more taken aback, she surrenders and lays her head on his belly. Her eyes drift shut almost instantly, she hasn’t slept at all last night after all, and not well in the days before that.

I’ll only rest for a moment, she thinks, finally feeling safe enough to do so.

Only seconds later she sleeps, too.

 

                                   *****************************************

 

When Spike slowly drifts to consciousness, it doesn’t take long to become aware of how close she still is. Her head rests heavily on his belly, his left hand is tucked securely in hers as it was when he fell asleep, and her other hand lies on his shoulder, just above the wound.

It must be why, for the first time, he awakens feeling kind of rested; although, having drunk a much bigger amount of blood earlier than he had all day before altogether probably didn’t hurt either. Still, for the first time he’s not sure the nightmares have been there at all; at least he doesn’t remember any. Even more important, the ghosts of his past are still lingering, but far away enough to not be intrusive. Far away enough that they almost could be ignored.

Not that he wants to ignore them; he really doesn’t. It’s too important to see them, recognize them, acknowledge them. He knows he needs this; it’s essential for dealing with his past that he remembers, really remembers.

But he also knows that ever since they ambushed him for the first time, brought him to his knees in the desert in Africa, he’s teetering on the brink of insanity. Not the kind one might confuse with recklessness; no, the kind when someone loses their mind for good, their ability to think clearly ever again.

The kind that puts people right to the edge of a steep cliff, tantalizing them with the allure of oblivion.

He’s pretty sure that, if it hadn’t been for her, he’d have fallen over the edge by now. It’s she who tore him back and kept him here, with her insistence, her willpower, her tears. He has no idea how he deserved this, but she did it.

She’s a bloody miracle.

He listens to her even heartbeat, feels her chest rise and fall shallowly; the flat breathing of sleep.

He’s touched that she fell asleep like that, that she stayed with him, again, instead of going elsewhere to catch some sleep. She must be exhausted; he can’t be sure, of course, because he remembers he slept in the crypt, but he thinks she didn’t.

He wonders if she knows how much it really helps him to have her near. That she is the reason that he begins to be strong enough to face his past. Of course she probably doesn’t even know that he’s constantly confronted with it, painfully reliving it kill for merciless kill. He’s a little fuzzy about the last 24 hours, but he’s quite certain that he didn’t mention anything about what is going on in his crazed brain, and even less about what’s causing it.

Maybe it’s better this way.

For a long while he just lies and watches her, feels warmth spreading out from her trusting posture, suffusing his every cell; watches her and is aware of the tenderness always hovering inside him. That tenderness that really wasn’t supposed to be part of the persona he formed out of his old self, yet which time and again fought its way back into his heart, but that only for her gripped said heart so tight that it hurt. And watching over the Slayer’s sleep, the Slayer who so unexpectedly fought for him, he finally focuses on something other than his ghosts haunting him - he finally begins to think.

For weeks he couldn’t form any coherent thought apart from what needed to be done to come back to Sunnydale and save her. After that for the longest time his ability to think straight had been buried deep within him, suffocated by his newly risen conscience. Now, for the first time, he contemplates all that has happened to him during those weeks since leaving here.

He thinks back at the calm contentment he felt in the train on his way to the east coast, his excitement in the plane on his first flight and on his walk in the desert, all in the conviction of doing the right thing. Getting what he needed, not only for saving her, but for understanding her better, helping her. And for finally coming to terms with the changes he already underwent before, getting rid of the confusion they mostly caused in him. To finally be the man she needed him to be. He remembers that he happily pictured himself having an epiphany about how he could really help her.

He cringes when he realizes that then, of course, he not so selflessly also pictured her finally seeing in the process that she felt something for him. Oh well.

He furrows his brow; what the hell had he been thinking, almost feeling like a child on Christmas Eve at the thought of getting himself a soul? Had he really been that naïve, thinking that he could come out of that without a scratch?

Of course not. He had seen Angel struggling with the soul, after all. But for some reason he never would’ve thought it to be so hard, never expected it to crush him so completely. Hadn’t it, unlike for Angelus, been his own decision?

He snorts. And therefore, what? He didn’t deserve this?

He knows he does. Actually he thinks that he deserves much worse; sending his soul to hell, suffering eternal torment, because all the pain it causes him, as much as he can barely stand it, is nothing compared to the pain he caused over the decades.

For a moment he wonders whether, knowing what he knows now, he would do it all over again.

He really doesn’t know; his unlife was so much easier before.

His free hand rises, finds its way to her head, gingerly stroking her hair. That’s all he needs to be sure: yes, he would. The hope of helping her vivid in his mind, he would. He would do about anything to finally get her happier.

Reality is different though. He’s not a bit closer to understanding how to help her, because he’s a little preoccupied with surviving his shiny new soul. And about the having feelings for him? He sees now, even with his muddled brain, that what happened between them before the portal was her using him to make her forget for a little while. Nothing less, because, pathetic as it may be, in a way it still makes him proud that he could at least accomplish what no one else could; but nothing more either. No feelings toward him whatsoever included.

Bugger.

He’s equipped with a brand new soul, and all it does is hurt.

He’s truly and thoroughly fucked.

It’s kind of scary, he thinks, how his first remotely coherent thoughts for days still circle around her. Nothing ever changes.

But that’s not entirely true, is it? He feels her head on his belly, her hair silken beneath his fingertips, her hand in his; her presence surrounds him like a blanket, keeps him feeling secure, protected somehow.

Funny, how he wanted to help her, and now it’s the other way around. She snaps him out of his brief dive into bitterness without doing a damn thing, just by being there, sleeping on him. Helps him turn his focus away from himself and his misery, stirring his thoughts to what he wanted to accomplish to begin with.

Trying to understand her.

His mind leaps back, to a dark, dank alley. _You can’t understand why this is killing me, can you? - Why don’t you explain it?_ He remembers his desperation that night, because he really didn’t. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why she felt compelled to turn herself in, why she felt so bad about that one dead girl.

Only one dead girl.

He winces when he feels pieces falling into place. Because now he understands. Had he really thought that one dead girl wouldn’t tip the scales that night?  He closes his eyes, overwhelmed by how well he suddenly understands. He feels as if every cell inside him turns to stone, only to give way to millions of aching explosions underneath his skin.

Each dead girl, each dead woman or man, each dead child tips the scale. There’s simply nothing one could weigh against a taken life, no matter how many lives they may have saved. He thinks of Angel and for the first time understands his deep desire to amend, to devote his entire being to the task of saving as many lives as possible.

A low moan escapes his throat, because he also knows that there just isn’t a number that grants him redemption. Not Angel, not himself. No amount of saved lives could ever achieve that.

And yet – he was also right that night. One girl doesn’t tip the scales – he is still convinced of what he’d told Buffy then. The girl was dead; nothing could’ve changed that anymore. But she’d saved so many lives, with each fight, and more than once the whole world; it clearly would have done more damage to the world than just this one dead girl had she stopped being the Slayer.

His eyes fly open as a thought occurs to him; doesn’t that apply for him, too? Isn’t sending his soul to hell for punishment as he would’ve chosen for a while the same as her turning herself into prison? Isn’t both just giving up? Going the easier road? Doing more damage to the world than taking one’s place in defying evil?

He feels that this is not about redemption; there’s no righting the wrongs, what’s done is done, the end.

It’s about doing his part to prevent even more death.

For the first time since coming back from Africa he begins to feel a little more like himself, and he understands it was what she saw earlier. She must have sensed the change in him even before he did; his slowly coming back thanks to her. It’s then that he feels something begin to hesitantly rise within him that is so undiluted Spike that he wonders how he could’ve survived so long without it: the will to fight.

And it’s the same moment that he understands something else; it’s also so very much Buffy, and it’s what she left behind in heaven, too. She kept fighting alright after coming back, but it wasn’t because she felt the urge to do so. It was just carrying out her duty. She couldn’t feel it anymore, the fire within her that always drove her forward before. Where it always had been, she felt a dark, freezing hole instead, akin to the deep, dark despair he’d holed up in until she dragged him out. It was what she desperately tried to find again, that fire; that’s what she’d come to him for; because somehow he could, for brief moments, give her a spark of what she needed, but it wasn’t enough to ignite the fire, wasn’t _real_. It’s part of why she gave up that night, a part of her relieved to be released from fighting without it.

He failed her, he knew that; where she succeeded, tearing him into her light, he selfishly pulled her into his darkness. Because he thought he’d help her, but also because he saw the chance to be near her, not understanding that he drove her only deeper into her hell of despair. He’d caught a glimpse of his failure that night in the portal when she fell apart. But now he understands it on a much deeper level; understands that she needs the light of her fire not only to fight, but really to exist, understands that the darkness in her that he enticed her to embrace isn’t the same as the one he lived in; that it’s mostly the darkness of despair, not only darkening the light, but drowning it.

Now he knows, and new shame fills him; he squeezes his eyes shut, pushing the liquid gathering there back.

But then he feels something tickling through the haze of shame, a tiny thought trying to make itself known; he pushes it back, too, but it’s resistant; it gets stronger, and suddenly it’s there. He sees her again in his crypt, fighting for him tooth and nails, and suddenly he realizes that somehow, unintended, even unaware that he did, he _did_ help her. In being one step short of giving up himself, he gave her back her will to fight, if only for him. Finally ignited the fire in her again, if only temporarily.

It’s huge, he knows that. He can’t take credit for this, of course, but that’s not what it is about. The important thing is that it happened at all, and that it even was strong enough for her to stand up against her friends.

A shy smile appears, tiny, but reaching his eyes, lighting them up with a soft gleam. It’s hope that spreads its wings; maybe they’ll find a way to help both of them after all.

He hesitantly strokes her hair, savoring the warmth a little longer, tearing strength off her, knowing now that it won’t weaken her. He’ll need it; he has still a long way to go, has to come to terms with his past. Has to find a way to live with what he did for such a long time without sinking back into despair, without letting himself be crippled by it. He’s more confident now that he’ll get there one day, but he’s still scared of the time until then, because he still hasn’t the slightest clue how to ward his ghosts off.

As if on cue, as if to show him that they are still a force to be reckoned with, or maybe to punish him for the ghost of a smile, they come to the fore now, closing in on him, encasing him like mist rising from the soil; cold fingers touch him, gliding over his skin, freezing his heart. He feels the air being sucked out of his lungs, air he doesn’t really need, but still it leaves him feeling suffocated. He gasps, pants for air; he feels a whimper bubbling up, tenses, fighting to keep it in, but fails, and in his ears it rings like a scream, a scream piercing his eardrums.

Until he realizes, it’s not him who screams.

It’s her.

And for a split second he’s grateful that she saved him again.

 

 


	12. Silent Lucidity

** Chapter 12 **

**Silent lucidity**

_(Title from a song by Queensryche)_

 

Buffy is caught in this weird feeling of being completely awake, knowing with absolute certainty that she’s dreaming, and yet thinking it’s reality. She recognizes the fast cuts of surroundings and people she’s communicating with, but still can’t help herself from taking everything at face value.

In the beginning she’s glad about it. It’s been so long that she hasn’t been with her mom, and she practically flies toward Joyce when she spots her at the back yard, flinging herself at her mother like a little child, half expecting to be whirled around like back then, her legs rising up in the air like pigeons.

Joyce doesn’t swing her around, though. Of course not, because even in her dream, Buffy’s not a kid anymore. She’s just of the age she really is, and she’s perfectly aware that her mom’s dead. She relishes the heartfelt hug even more knowing this, burying her head in the crook of Joyce’s neck and breathing her scent in deeply, and she’s surprised about how well she still remembers it.

“Buffy, sweetheart, stop that! Your breath is tickling me!” The laughter in Joyce’s voice betrays the tease in her complaint, and Buffy can’t help but to continue breathing, deliberately hitting the point where she knows her mom is ticklish, dancing out of reach when Joyce seeks revenge with her threatening fingers.

“You won’t get me, mom. No one ever gets me, you know?” Buffy laughs, wondering what she just said when she sees her mom’s face turn serious all of a sudden.

“I noticed,” she says, her hand reaching for her daughter, a soft, warm hand on Buffy’s ice cold cheek. Why is she feeling so cold? “Cold to cold,” Joyce adds, with twinkles in her eyes.

Buffy stares wildly at her. “What? What do you mean?”

Joyce turns her around a little, so that she faces the dark street. Buffy wipes over her face, taking her sleeve to dry the skin on her cheeks from the pouring rain then, shivering from the cold emanating from her drenched clothes. She can’t see quite clearly, so she squeezes her eyes shut for a second, and when she reopens them she stares right in the face of a terrified woman.

She screams. It takes a second to realize that in fact the woman in front of her screams. What is coming from herself is more of a growl, deep, animalistic. Well known. A vampire growl.

There’s no time at all to consider this surprising epiphany that she growls like a vampire, because the next thing she knows is she’s tearing up the woman’s throat, sinking her teeth in it and drinking deeply. She feels the woman going limp in her arms, and she has the sudden urge to howl, howl with glee over the rush in her veins.

She lets the lifeless body fall to the ground and turns to her mom, but all she can see is the mist rising up in the urban canyon, and then she’s in a house, lit only by candles, or is it gaslight? A woman is leading the way through the hallways, obviously a nurse, but clad strangely, like in the twenties? A long skirt, an apron, a cap. They pass open doors, and behind each there are long rows of beds, and when the nurse shows them into one of the rooms, Buffy knows that in each bed a child is sleeping. She sees herself taking one of the children in her arms, careful not to wake the little girl. The nurse is sort of complaining, and she feels herself getting annoyed about the interference. She throws the sleeping form in her arms over her shoulders, not caring about the immediate screams she raises with that act, and with her now free hands she stops the complaining the only way reasonable; wedging the child against her shoulder, she takes the nurse’s head between her hands and twists. Silence. Good.

She lowers the weight on her shoulders down to lay the girl on the bed; a different bed in a different room, not really giving a damn about the child’s fear widened eyes when she hears the joy of the one she wanted to please with her gift. Hands are clapping together in delight, the same hands that immediately after stroke her hips, and then up at her sides toward her head. The hands are as cold as her cheeks were, and then they aren’t.

“My poor girl,” Joyce’s voice murmurs in her ear, “don’t you understand? Is that really what you want?”

She jerks back, out of her mother’s arms, bewilderedly watching her sympathetic face. “What? No, of course not. This isn’t me, mom. I’m not a demon.”

“Are you sure about that? Be honest, Buffy. Doesn’t it make you a perfect demon yourself if you’re falling for one? Spike likes chocolate with those little marshmallows in it, did you know that? I like him. He’s a killer, right? And so handsome.”

 

***

 

Has he really been grateful that she saved him with her scream? It lasts not longer than a second. Then he recognizes she’s having a nightmare; she’s flailing around, mumbling words he doesn’t understand, whimpering.

 

***

 

Their surroundings change again; they are dancing to music Buffy doesn’t recognize. It’s the kind of music she vaguely would put in the corner of Jazz, and their dance is kind of lazy. Her mom’s face is a little overdone in terms of her make up, and smeared at that. She’s drunk, Buffy suddenly realizes, and not her mom at all. And not on the dance floor either, but in a dank alley, very much like the one behind the Bronze, only the surrounding houses are higher. A bigger city, she assumes. And then the rush of blood pumping under her lips is there again - flowing between her lips, gushing into her mouth, the fear stained eyes, the screaming. It’s overwhelmingly satisfying - the scent of horror, the glance breaking, the body becoming heavy in death.

Then she’s back in a house, only dimly lit, probably candles again. Light enough to see the frightened man, bound to a pillar, bleeding. She kneels down in front of him, licking blood from the wound on his chest where the shirt he’s wearing is ripped apart, savoring the rich taste, the terrified gasps, and the odor of fear. When she lifts her head to watch him, it’s now a woman lying on a bed, straddled by her, stiffened in terror, with eyes wide but unseeing. The heart is still beating, but the brain has shut down already, and Buffy feels a twinge of regret that it went too fast to relish.

Another child, a boy this time, already dead. A woman, a man. Torn apart, terrified eyes still open in death. Movement beside her; she’s not alone. Hands reaching for her, in ways she’s not used to, stroking her, squeezing; her body reacting in ways she doesn’t recognize either. More dead bodies, dying bodies, people she’s killing. Her own body covering another, thrusting her hips down on a woman’s, dead yet clutching her, dark curls tickling her nose; screams of pleasure from both their mouths, then the woman whispering something about stars.

She sees the woman’s hand lifting, reaching over to the corpse lying beside them, dipping her fingers into a ragged neck wound, bringing the bloodied fingers to their mouths joined in a kiss. Feels the blood on her tongue, and a laughter bubbling up.

The now very distant part of her that still knows it’s all a dream cries out in agony over the pictures, doubles over from the churning ache in her stomach. From the delight she feels. Tries to cut off the pictures, tries desperately to escape, to wake up.

“Oh, but you can’t ever escape them now, can you?” The soft voice of her mom again, sounding so reassuring, when all she tells her is the bitter truth. “Never again. It’s all in you. It’s your life. It’s what you are.”

She whirls around, but she only catches sight of Joyce’s retreating form, vanishing quickly in the mist. Her voice is barely audible anymore. “You belong to the darkness…” are the last words she can hear her mother say before she’s gone.

Fear leaps at her like a wild animal. “No, I don’t!” she yells her denial.

And then there’s a new voice. “Yes, you do, luv. I told you, you belong with me. You _are_ me now, didn’t you know?”

She turns around to face him, to punch him for having the audacity to say such things to her. But all she sees is a mirror. It has to be a mirror, because she sees herself, aiming a blow - at herself. And what she feels is a love so strong, it nearly overwhelms her.

She screams.

 

***

 

She screams again, an agonized scream fading to desperate sobs then, no less heart shattering. He grabs her shoulder with his free hand, gives it a gentle shake, strokes her hair then. “Buffy.” He strokes and shakes, squeezing her hand in his, strokes again. “Buffy. Wake up.”

She sits with a start, gasping, eyes wide open; her arm thrashes wildly, hitting her elbow into his chest wound.

“Ow.”

She turns to look at him, shock about whatever she saw in her mind still etched in her face. It takes a few seconds until understanding sets in, but the relief he expected fails to show.

 

***

 

A scream pierces her ears and the earth is shaking under her.

Her first thought is that there’s another earthquake announcing the next apocalypse. The next thing she becomes aware of is the voice saying her name and a strong hand holding her shoulder, stroking her head.

Then she realizes that the voice she heard screaming and then sobbing is hers, and it’s not the earth shaking, but her body.

The next thing she’s aware of is that she sits now; when did she sit up?

“Ow.”

She turns to look at him; she must have punched her elbow into his wound when she jolted upright. She’s dimly aware that she should be sorry, manages even to mumble something like that, but it’s just a reflex; she finds she can’t focus enough to really care. Her mind is still reeling from her nightmare, her heart thunders in her chest, and it seems she can’t stop shaking.

She sees him frowning, sees concern rising up in his eyes, and she knows she should say something, but she can’t find the right words. Or any words. She just stares at him.

 

***

 

“Buffy?”

He shifts to a sitting position and leans against the headboard; slowly, carefully, because she has that look on her face as though any rash movement would chase her away, or maybe make her explode into thousands of tiny pieces. She continues to stare at him, and he’s not quite sure anymore if she even sees him, or anything at all, if she’s frightened or if she’s angry at him.

Or if she’s even awake.

He lifts his hand reluctantly, reaches out to her arm, but pulls back before he touches her. He feels like an intruder, and at the same time he wants to hold her, reassure her, because suddenly he _knows_ she’s terrified.

He then remembers that he has a second hand, one that is still linked to hers. This is better; no intrusion because they are already touching, and his eyes fall shut in relief for a second. He gingerly tightens his hold on her, gently strokes her fingers with his thumb, yet expecting her to withdraw anytime. He’s glad when she doesn’t, even though her being dangerously close to being catatonic again begins to scare him.

What the bloody hell did she dream about that left her a trembling heap of fright?

 

****

 

What is wrong with her? It was only a dream, right? One of those nightmares she frequently had ever since she got out of the portal, ever since those damn pictures had somehow invaded her mind. Gruesome, yes, and she’s sure they are real memories, but for her it still was only a nightmare.

Right?

But she knows something was different this time, she just can’t quite put her finger on it.

They had been so real.

All those people, dead and dying, had been so real. And her mom…

And suddenly she knows what left her so shocked.

This nightmare didn’t just show her those memories from other people like in a horror show; kill after kill, torture and death.

This time she was on the inside.

This one felt like one of her slayer dreams. Those that always somehow conveyed the truth to her.

_It’s all in you. It’s your life. It’s what you are._

She breathes in sharply. Is that the truth in her dream? Is this what she really is? _You belong to the darkness…_ She’s not aware that she clutches Spike’s hand like her life depended on not losing it. Her mom’s voice telling her about her greatest fears as if they were a matter of fact rings in her ears as if she stood right in front of her, and again the denial rises up in her throat.

“No, I don’t…” she whispers harshly. And then it’s another voice she remembers replying.

_Yes, you do, luv. I told you, you belong with me…_ Her eyes grow even wider than before, and for the first time since she awoke, she focuses on him, really sees him.

He watches her warily, sympathy written all over his face. She can tell that he desperately wants to help her, soothe her. Wants to be there for her. It’s not a new feature in him, she knows that, and yet, something is different, even now when he seems lucid like he hasn’t been ever since she found him.

She slowly calms down a bit, loses focus on her nightmare while she begins to contemplate the change in him again; but the nagging feeling the nightmare left in her remains.

 

***

 

He finally feels her relaxing a fraction, the deer-in-the-headlights expression slowly fading from her face, and he feels her vise like grip on his hand somewhat loosen.

He doesn’t stop stroking her hand, though. Only to be sure to show her he’s there.

“Better, luv?” he asks softly.

She takes a deep breath and bravely tries to laugh it away; only what’s tumbling from her lips is still too close to a sob, and her hand flies to her mouth to shut the traitorous sound in.

Maybe it would help her to tell him about what she dreamt?

Yeah, as if. Buffy talking feelings - to him, no less.

Against better judgment his mouth takes initiative. When had he ever listened to better judgment? “Wanna…talk about what had you so rattled?” he suggests, somewhat tentatively, at least.

When she looks up at him for a moment, he half expects one of her killing glances; the longing he detects in her eyes instead surprises him. Until she begins to speak.

“My mom was there,” she says, her eyes cast on their still linked hands again as if for further support, and it’s just then that he understands how much she still misses her mother.

He certainly can relate.

“Yeah?” he asks warily; a nightmare starring a lost loved one doesn’t sound promising, and he already cringes inwardly at the thought of what she might’ve seen.

“Yeah.” She nods, and a brief smile crosses her features. And vanishes as fast as it appeared. “And then she wasn’t.” Her voice is hard now, like splintering glass. “Then I killed a woman.”

His brows shoot up. “What?”

“I drank her dry…” It’s merely a whisper that leaves her mouth.

Spike feels his insides turn to ice.

She dreamt she was a vampire.

It takes everything from him not to flinch, not to jerk his hand away from hers. To stay with her.

He searches for words to comfort her, but doesn’t find any.

Too close is her horror to his, to what he experiences these days.

“I relished in it,” she whispers, and now all he wants is to make her stop talking, but he doesn’t. “Then I stole a kid, from an orphanage, I think, and snapped an orderly’s neck when she tried to hold me back.” Teardrops are silently dripping on their hands in his lap now. “It was a girl, four or five years old, maybe. I brought her to someone as a _gift_.” She spits it out, venom in her voice at the depravity of a gift like that, and Spike can only imagine what she thinks of.

“And then Mom was there again. She told me…” She stops suddenly as if remembering something she’s not ready to share. Her eyes flicker up to his face nervously and back down, avoiding his eyes, and he’s relieved. He couldn’t look into her eyes right now.

She’s silent for a long time. Just when he thinks there will be no more telling, she goes on.

“I killed more…a lot more. A woman I had danced with before. A man bound to a pillar I… _we_ maybe had tortured before. There was someone else with me, another…” She swallows convulsively, and suddenly he feels himself doing the same. She can’t say it, but he knows of course; another vampire.

“It was a woman, but we still had…we killed and then we…we…right next to the corpse. And that other woman, she dipped her fingers into…and we…” Her voice breaks; she draws in a shuddery breath to regain a shred of composure. “We licked it off and _laughed_ ,” she almost yells, before the horror finally strangles her enough to prevent her from speaking.

Only her eyes still do.

Drip. Drip.

Spike sits paralyzed. He feels the ice in his stomach turn to thousands of sharp, pointy knifes, slicing through his insides.

He knows exactly what she’s talking about.

Because he remembers.

Over the last days he completely forgot about it, never once contemplated what had happened then. He was too consumed with his very own agony. But now he remembers.

He remembers the storm of emotions and pictures he couldn’t place befalling him when he saved her from the portal. When he linked their souls.

He also remembers a man bound to a pillar, licking his blood, savoring the taste of fear. He remembers more than one occasion when he kidnapped children from orphanages; Dru loved children, and he would’ve done anything to make her happy. Snapping the neck of a nurse had been a bonus more often than not; nurses tended to give alarm when they understood what he did, and he couldn’t have that, now could he?

He doesn’t know the particular corpse Buffy has seen, because he remembers many times that he had a nice shag with his black goddess beside one. And Dru used to love to feed him the blood of their victims meanwhile. It had always been a turn on for both of them.

Oh God.

He doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink. He watches the girl in front of him, traces the tear that is gliding down her cheek with his gaze.

Drip.

Oh God. What has he done to her?

 

***

 

Deep down, in a part of her that is completely shut down for the moment, she’s aware that he doesn’t move anymore. The stroking on her hand stopped shortly after she began to tell him what she dreamt of, and the face she saw when she last looked up at him was much more appalled than she would’ve expected. To be honest, appalled was the very last expression she expected to see on his face. Instead she thought him to be more…mocking, maybe. Appalled? Not so much.

After all, everything she told him about has to be kind of usual for him. Then why does he act as if in shock?

A much bigger part of her doesn’t care. That part is preoccupied with recalling the end of her nightmare, remembering a voice telling her that she belonged with him. His voice, she suddenly knows. And then, like a flash, the memory of what woke her rushes back to her mind. _You_ are _me now, didn’t you know?_ And again she sees herself aiming a blow at her.

_You_ are _me now, didn’t you know?_ It’s his voice saying those words.

She’s aiming at _him_.

Her head comes up, slowly, hesitantly. She doesn’t know if she wants to see what is on his face.

But she has to know.

She flinches at the extent of guilt in his eyes. There’s plenty more written in his face; shock, horror, fear, sorrow. But the most dominant expression is the one of guilt. She can see that he barely holds it together, and suddenly she remembers that he’s still recovering from whatever happened to him, and she feels bad for adding to his misery, even if she doesn’t know why he would feel guilty for her nightmare.

Their eyes meet, and she can tell he fights to keep them locked, to not break away.

With a visible effort he takes a deep breath, the breath he needs for speaking.

“Buffy, I’m so sorry…”

That’s when she knows.

She knows without a doubt, and the world suddenly seems to topple over in its axis.

“You…?” she whispers, still not quite believing what she concluded herself.

He only swallows, and then she sees his eyes burning in despair. He knows she understood.

Everything falls in place now. The woman she’d been with in her nightmare; she had dark, curly hair. She should’ve recognized the hand clapping thing, it’s so very much the nutcase she is, and it makes total sense after having gotten a child to drain as a _gift_. Drusilla.

She’d assumed that somehow he activated a slayer thing that day, made her recall vampire’s kills and tortures to strengthen her sense of duty or some such crap. The truth is so much worse though.

The truth is it’s only _his_ life tormenting her.

Everything she saw since the portal, everything she dreamt of as soon as she drifted to sleep is from _his_ past.

_You_ are _me now, didn’t you know?_ That’s why she heard him saying that, and that’s why she saw herself aiming a blow at him. She’s reliving _his_ deeds.

However he did it, he implanted his memories into her brain.

She stares at him, and suddenly she doesn’t see the sorrow anymore, nor the shock or the fear. All she sees is the guilt in his eyes, the knowledge of everything he’d done. To her and to all those people. Hundreds, thousands of people, men, women, children. She hears the screams again, the crying, but also breaking bones, tearing flesh and delighted, gleeful laughter. And she feels the place where her heart should be turn into stone.

“It’s all yours?”

She sees his eyes pleading with her, but it doesn’t crack the stone in her chest.

She pulls her hand out of his grasp and watches his face fall. A very distant part of her tries hesitantly to intervene, tries to remind her of what she went through with him during the past days, tries to direct her attention to the sorrow she saw in his face.

She can’t.

All she can think of is how utterly repulsed she is. She knew of his past, of course, but to actually see it, to live through his kills and feel him enjoying it is a different story altogether. She feels something red and hot surge through her like she hasn’t felt in a long time, rendering every ounce of liquid into boiling lava, and she barely restrains from hitting him.

How could he do this to her?

And…how _could_ he really? How did he do it?

And…

“Why?”

 

***

 

Her accusing stare is almost too much to bear.

He wants her so desperately to understand that he never meant to burden her with his past, that he didn’t really have a say in this. But he knows her; she won’t listen.

And he can’t find the words anyway.

He wants to reach out for her, but only the tiniest twitch of his hand makes her shrink back, only a little, but noticeable, her whole  body trembling.

“Why, Spike?” she spits out, “Why would you do that to me?”

He presses his back against the headboard at the rejection, his gaze drops. “I didn’t know,” he whispers; he’s surprised that he even got these words out, but he can hear how lame they sound. Like from a petulant child that broke a vase and is afraid to be scolded. “I didn’t know…”

“You didn’t know _what_?” She’s a hairsbreadth away from exploding, and he knows he won’t survive the detonation. He’s been on the receiving end of her anger often enough to recognize that this is worse than ever. Sheer panic forces the words out, the all-consuming fear of losing her; losing what little bond has been forming between them over the past days.

“Must have been with the linking…”

That stops her for a second. “Linking? What…what linking?” She’s irritated, but he can tell that it’s the same anger as before, just differently disguised.

“Well, I had to link them, to save…” His head snaps up, his eyes catching hers to underline the sincerity in his words. “I promised, didn’t I? Kept the promise, this time.” He knows that he’s not making a lick of sense, but he feels like in a maelstrom; he can’t think clearly anymore.

There’s a long pause then. He sees her mind working, trying to process what she heard. He sees the anger slowly subsiding; instead slowly a sneaking suspicion takes over. And he can see that she doesn’t like where her thoughts are headed, that everything in her wants to run, run far, far away from here, from him. Yet, she’s strong; she doesn’t give in. She draws in a deep breath to chase her fear out of her mind, replaces it with determination; leans even a little closer again to add emphasis to her words. “What are you talking about, Spike? What promise? You had to link…what?”

God, he never wanted her to know about the soul. Never wanted her to feel obligated, to act differently, just because he had a soul now. Wanted her to not be influenced by that. But what choice does he have now?

He averts his eyes, locks them on his fidgeting fingers. “Yours and…and the new one. Mine. Fought for it, didn’t I? Mine.  My squeaky clean new one.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment when he realizes the irony of it all. “Only not so clean now, is it?” A bitter laugh escapes his mouth, and he can hear how insane it sounds. He catches himself; he doesn’t want to appear insane, not now. Not when he wants her to understand.

He hesitantly looks up.

 

***

 

Buffy recoils as she sees his eyes. His gaze is raw, completely unguarded, like she never has seen it before. Exposing his emotions, he lays his whole self out in the open; every shred that is Spike for her to see.

She’s dimly aware that she’s standing then, hears the chair she’s been sitting – no, _sleeping_ on with her head on his belly, clatter behind her at her hasty retreat.

She’s not been prepared for this.

His always expressive features are nothing in comparison to what she sees now, and it scares her to the bone.

It’s not possible. It can’t be.

And then it’s like blinds are drawn closed in his eyes; his face loses all expression for a second, before a smirk appears. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands, a little unsure on his legs at first, but gaining strength with each of her frantic heartbeats.

It’s as if he rises before her eyes, fortified by stepping closer to her, looming over her suddenly. He leans in then, brings his mouth to the side of her face as if to kiss her on her cheek, but she knows it’s not what he intends to do. She tenses.

“Of course, this is not what you want to hear, right? Throws a spanner in your view of the world as black’n white, doesn’t it?” His breath tickles at her neck, his voice is low and dark, and the threat in it sends a chill down her spine. She knows he must be deeply hurt to act like that toward her, but right now she can’t bring herself to care. There’s too much turmoil raging within her to care. So, just like him, she resorts to the familiar pattern in their relationship. She puts her hands on his chest and pushes him back, hard.

“What are you talking about?” she hisses, anger the only reliable emotion she can fall back on.

He staggers briefly, but catches himself surprisingly well considering the weakness he exposed just a few hours ago. He laughs darkly.

“Still on the deluding-yourself wagon on its journey through denial land.” He’s back in her personal space with only a few quick steps, leans in again, nose to nose this time, his blue eyes boring into her green ones. “Oh, but you know. You saw it; everything. You felt how I feel about it.” He straightens, his eyes never leaving hers, tilting his head as if listening, and then his gaze softens a fraction.

He steps back, holding her eyes for another moment, then his glance slips, no longer strong enough, away from her. He walks over to the window and shifts the heavy curtains a little aside, looking down on her front yard, silently. Neither of them speaks or moves for a long time. She sees part of his face, a stony mask that he rarely succeeds to put on. She sees the tension in his shoulders that speaks loud and clear of what his face isn’t telling her. She sees tiny flittering dust grains dancing on the beams of moonlight sliding in through the small gap between his face and the curtain. She sees his hand holding the curtain in place trembling slightly.

A part of her yearns to join him, to lay a hand on the tense shoulders, to stop the tremble with her other. But she’s rooted to the spot, incapable of moving any muscle. She suddenly can’t remember how to breathe anymore; she knows that somehow air is supposed to find its way into her lungs, but she can’t even imagine how she should achieve that through her constricted throat. Instead of oxygen, fear races through her veins, leaving ice in its wake.

Because he’s right. She knows.

They stand like that for what feels like hours before she finally can speak again, in a hoarse whisper that betrays how much effort it takes.

“Your soul…?”

He laughs again, the same dark laughter as before. So much despair radiates off him, and the eerie laughter floating on it lets it appear abyss deep. “Such a heavy word for such a useless thing…”

“But…why?” Her heart thumps in her chest, so loud that she can hear it thundering in her ears.

“Needed it,” he says, and she can’t get rid of the impression that he tries to convince himself, as if he once knew the truth of this statement, but can’t quite remember.

He turns then to meet her gaze, and the mask is gone.

She can see it then, his soul, shining through every pore, flaring in his eyes.

“For you,” he says.

And she runs.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, don't beat me to death with a shovel...if anyone has even read this far...


	13. Of Monsters and Men

__

** Chapter13 **

**Of Monsters and Men**

_(Title from a band of the same name)_

She runs without thinking, aimlessly.

Her feet are pounding on the streets and the sidewalks, faster, faster. She tries to outrun the thoughts pursuing her, chasing her; clutches her ears as though that could hold them back from entering her mind. Her breath goes like a steam engine, because she never in her life ran as fast as now. She practically flies, fleeing from thinking. All the while she tries desperately to hold in the scream that threatens to break out of her throat, ragged whimpers the only sounds escaping every now and then. _Don’t think. Don’t think. Faster, faster._ She runs and runs, until she feels as if she had never done anything else in her life. She focuses on her feet hammering on the asphalt beneath her, on her burning lungs, on her aching muscles, and after a long, long while, she finally succeeds in feeling the once so detested detachment again.

She runs until she finds herself in front of his crypt, breathing heavily, her hand already raised to push the door open. That’s when she realizes that her feet automatically took the path the most familiar to her, or maybe, she concedes reluctantly, the path that promised the most ease at its end.

Only that he’s not in there to provide that ease.

She snorts a humorless laugh. It’s kind of funny, she thinks; she’s fleeing from him as fast as she can – directly to his place.

She sighs deeply, and then she pushes. Still enwrapped in some of the protecting numbness, she enters the dark room just as the first rays of sun filter through the bushes, and a startled look flashes briefly across her face as she realizes how very much aware she is of the sunlight and the threat it poses to the vampire. Despite the surge of fear this thought causes she pointedly closes the door firmly behind her, as if to shut out the danger, although he isn’t here.

Which is good, of course, that he isn’t here. She ran away from him after all. Would be kinda silly to run into his arms then.

It’s kinda silly anyway that she’s here at all. But it still feels weirdly right.

God, what is wrong with her? She can’t stand to be with him, only to run to where she can pretend to be with him? How sick is that?

She paces back and forth, not knowing what to do now that she’s here. Why the hell did she even come here? What did she hope to find, in his crypt of all places?

She absentmindedly picks up a candle, turns it around in her hands and sets it back, then resumes her pacing. She feels like a caged animal, even though she could walk out of here every minute; it’s as if the cage is inside her head, not holding her hostage, but trying to protect her, still fighting hard to keep the thoughts out she’s not ready to think. Probably will never be ready to think.

And yet, here in his crypt, it takes only moments until they catch up with her; she feels them seeping in, cold as ice water, spreading in her head like ink on a blotting paper; taking roots and birthing new ones, inexorably.

She plops down in his ratty armchair and puffs out her cheeks with an exasperated breath. She feels as if her head’s going to explode from racing thoughts within seconds, and she tries to at least steer them in a proper direction, or in any direction at all, but it’s futile. Words keep tumbling around in her mind like a drunken crowd dancing to a punk rock song, stumbling one over the other and then the next, leaving only a mess. Not one of them makes any sense to her right now. Not yet.

She stares at his blank TV screen for a while, then she looks around. She sees signs of a fight, of _her_ fight with the demons attacking Spike, while he was crouching in a corner in the basement, hoping for them to return and kill him off.

Because he had his soul back and was suffering.

And all of a sudden it’s there at the forefront of her mind, that one thought that is the mother of all thoughts she fled from.

He has his soul back.

She gasps; she feels like drowning in snow, smothering and freezing her at the same time.

Somehow he got his soul back.

She leaps up as if sitting on the pointy end of a knife. She can’t. She can’t let it in. _Not yet_.

Her feet begin to move of their own accord and she thinks she’s fleeing again, but only for a second, then she notices she’s on her way downstairs instead. _So_ not the place to go now, but apparently her feet are making the decisions for her today.

She stands there for a long while, frozen. Her eyes scan over the place, taking in the damage she’s done only a few hours ago, by fighting the demons, by fighting him. Even in the dim light she can still see the shards of glass and the dried puddle of blood from when he batted the glass out of her hand. When he wanted to die.

Memories of the hours with him down here flood her inner eyes, and despite everything, her heart aches for him.

That’s when at last she lets it in.

And she instantly wishes she hadn’t.

For months, all she had yearned for had been to feel something again, feel _any_ thing. But now, when she finally does, she wonders why she had so desperately wanted to.

Because it hurts like hell.

She’s reminded of that one time when she was little and on a winter vacation with her whole family. She’d been outside without gloves for too long and had formed snowball after snowball without caring that she couldn’t feel her hands anymore. Later, though, when the blood had flowed through the blood vessels again, melting her frozen hands, it had hurt so much that she’d cried for what felt like hours.

It’s a little like what she feels now. Only now it’s much worse.

A hurricane of emotions rolls through her, melting away the protecting walls in a rush.

She drops to her knees, her legs not strong enough all of a sudden to support her weight, and cries.

She cries because it all makes sense now.

Back in her room her mind put the pieces together, this puzzle of all those senseless fragments that suddenly fell into place all by themselves. She understands now what he did after he left her in the portal; hell, _why_ he left her there in the first place. His strange behavior when he saved her; what he did then.The memories thrust into her mind, the buttload of emotions coming along. His refusal to feed, to live; the conviction not to deserve it, the crushing guilt he feels.

He went and got his soul.

She winds her arms around herself, protection from flying apart.

He sought it out. The thing he despised with a vengeance in Angel; that he scoffed about, ridiculed whenever it was mentioned. The thing that he must have known would be nearly impossible to reconcile his very nature with. That would make it impossible to go on living like before. The thing that would almost certainly force him to give up everything he loved, irrevocably.

Except for her.

_Needed it…For you._

_Her_ he would save with it.

She shudders when she thinks of all the images that had been poured into her mind when he linked their souls; all those atrocities she was forced to relive over and over again, that kept her from sleeping and gave her nightmares whenever she fell asleep against her will.

She cries because that had been _his_ memories. The weight of that knowledge forces her down, down to the dusty ground, pressing her face into the dirt. Drenching it with her tears that won’t stop to fall.

She cries because she thinks of the vampire she trusted enough to protect her family and she took refuge in when she had no one else she could stand to be around. The vampire she had sex with. Often. The vampire she put all her hate upon, the hate she felt for herself; and he took it from her without batting an eye, because he somehow understood that she needed it, and because it was all he could ever get from her.

The one that, just some hours ago, she had admitted to herself she was terrified to lose.

 _That_ was his past.

She’d known that, of course. But it hadn’t appeared as half as unbearable to read about it like actually seeing it, hearing it, feeling it. Living through it. It makes a world of a difference.

She shivers violently and then forces herself to sit up on her knees, inhales deeply in a futile effort to stop the tears from flowing and to fight back the nausea that is suddenly attacking her.

How could she even let him touch her, with those hands that did such unspeakable things to countless innocent people?

How could she touch him?

And yet, here she sits in his crypt. Taking refuge in his place yet again.

Yearning for his touch again.

God, _what_ is wrong with her?

She hesitantly rises to her feet, stands on shaky legs for a moment before she walks over to his bed. She sinks down on it, slowly, not sure if she really wants to sit there, but her trembling knees give way before she comes to a decision. As soon as she sits, though, her hand sneaks onto the sheets covering it, stroking them cautiously.

He was so full of pain all those hours she was here with him. So full of despair. He’d needed her so much. How could she even think of adding to his agony by not wanting to sit on his bed anymore?

She sees his eyes again, the moment she could _see_ his soul, _for you_ , and she falls to pieces. She collapses on his bed, clutches his sheets, buries her head in them and lets her tears wet them.

She cries because she remembers the wounds on his chest, and it’s then that she understands. _Too much, wanted it out. Don’t need it anymore. She’s safe now_. He couldn’t bear it any longer. He’d tried to cut his soul out of his chest. Spike, the strongest person she ever met, had given up. Not before he’d saved her, of course.

He suffered hell for her. Still does, probably. How is she supposed to live with that? She saw the agony he was in all those long hours, knows it was like that for at least days, maybe a lot longer, judging by his starved appearance; saw him eventually fighting then to go on with his unlife. And again he did it only for her, she suddenly remembers, and she cries a little harder. He had given up the fight already, had tried to let it end. Until she came along and forced him with her breakdown to reconsider.

Oh God. Shame colors her cheeks; she forced him to endure the pain longer for her, the pain he was in only because of her, without stopping even once to question her action. Because she didn’t want to lose him. She, who never had done anything but take from him what she needed, had refused him peace for selfish reasons.

She was no better than her friends when they tore her out of heaven.

And yet – had she been confronted with the choice to let him go now, she feels that even knowing all that, she wouldn’t, couldn’t decide differently. Can’t tune out completely the tiny voice that whispers something about deserving either.

She burrows her head a little deeper into the sheets and lets the tears flow, eventually giving up the effort to stop them. She has so many reasons to cry; yet in the end, it all comes down to one.

She cries because he was right.

She cries because the world of black and white she’d built over the years came tumbling down around her the second she understood, and she has no idea how to build a new one.

Has no idea how he fits in now; even worse, has no idea how she fits in.

She’s standing on shaking ground with nothing to hold onto, and it scares her more than anything before.

She lies on his bed, terrified, clenching her fists into the linen, and, just for one second, the ghost of a  timid smile flits through the tears as she realizes that she _is_ holding onto something. Even if it’s just his bed sheets. She squirms a little deeper, melting into the mattress, and lets his scent wash over her; and despite the turmoil in her head she feels herself getting a little calmer. She dimly wonders how it’s possible that she gains strength from his scent when it’s him causing her breakdown in the first place; she thinks maybe it’s because she never had to be afraid of his judgment. It’s a kind of safeness she only ever felt when being with him; the safeness of being just Buffy, no mask whatsoever necessary.

She’d always thought she’d felt that way because she just didn’t care what he thought of her, but now she knows that’s not it; it’s because deep down she always knew that he loved her. And that nothing she could do would change that.

The tear stream slowly ebbs away, the trembling ceases, breathing gets easier. It’s eerie, but in all the craziness, with everything she knows now, it’s still him who provides her refuge, who sets her a little at ease, even though her head keeps spinning, her stomach still feels like a big stone and her emotions are all over the place. She has no idea which one of them is the strongest - the gut wrenching guilt she feels that he’s suffering because of her; the indescribable horror at knowing he had done all those cruelties, at reliving them over and over; or the fear of not knowing how to handle soulful Spike, or how to handle herself around him that threatens to suffocate her. And yet, lying on his bed covered in his scent calms her down enough to let her slowly drift away. The realization of how silly it is to stay here when she really, really doesn’t want to see him yet hits her too late, only moments before sleep overcomes her.

Despite the war that is raging in her head, within seconds she is fast asleep.

 

                                   ******************************************

 

He stands shell-shocked for a moment, staring at the doorstep she just crossed. Then, like a deflating balloon, all the energy leaves him, his shoulders sag and he slumps against the window sill, slowly gliding down the wall until his butt hits the floor.

Although he’d known that she’d react exactly like she did, running off when it was getting too personal, he couldn’t stop himself. The glory old ways are too deeply rooted; he lived too long after the rules of hunt, threaten, kill, to shed them so easily.

He could tell the moment she got it. It wasn’t her retreat that gave her away. It was her eyes. First he saw the horror dawning there, and the next second the veil went down, to shut herself off to him again. That’s when he knew she knew.

And the old ways took over, providing him with the familiar protection he created them for in the first place.

At least that had made it easier for her.

Now she’s gone, chased away at last. And he still doesn’t understand her.

Big help the soddin’ soul is.

He feels cold, as cold as he shouldn’t feel, vampire that he still is. It’s not cold from outside, though. It’s the cold of being left alone again by the one thing that gave him a little warmth in his misery.

He sighs as he pulls his knees up to brace his arms on them, burying his head in his hands. She stayed with him through so much during the last days; was there for him when he needed her most, like no one ever before had been there for him. And then she chooses the exact moment to bail when she understands the one thing that was supposed to make things easier between them.

He knows why she ran, of course. Same reason why he didn’t want her to know what he’d done in the first place.

He took away the recurring theme of her rejecting him, _I could never be your girl; you’re an evil, soulless thing._ By gaining his soul, he eventually blurred the lines between black and white to such an extent that even she couldn’t deny a certain in-between any longer. Not only did he strip her from the only thing she had left to hold on to - her belief in black and white - but also she’s certainly convinced that he did it for the sole purpose of proving himself worthy of her, because she knows he would do just about anything to gain her love.

She probably will never stop to consider other reasons for him than selfish ones.

He doesn’t know what he expected, though. He might have toyed with the thought himself; that she’d sink into his arms, admitting her undying love for him, so why shouldn’t she? That was before, of course. Before he had that thing inside that makes him see clearly. Makes him finally see what she’d been seeing all along. That he’s a monster and not worthy of her love. Of anyone’s love, for that matter.

He’s glad, for his sake and also for hers, that this wasn’t what drove him to Africa. That it wasn’t even the saving-the-damsel-in-distress mission; not really. That he worked on gearing up the courage for that step long before the incident with the portal. That when he understood at one point that he’d tried to help her the wrong way for months _try on my world, see how good it feels_ , he’d known he’d have to play it a bit differently.

His eyes fall shut and he groans. All he ever wanted was to help her, help her find her smile again. Put her mask at rest. Instead…

Instead now she’s seeing all his cruelties, reliving them in her dream. God, he hates magic. Had he known that this could be a side effect of the spell, maybe he could’ve taken precautions. Could’ve prevented her from having to see this. Having involuntarily added to her suffering, with his soul at that, makes his heart twist with agony; this is so far away from what he wants for her.

His arm shoots up and aside, his clenched fist hitting the wall with a satisfying bang. The relief it provides is only short lived, though, anguish too dominant in him.

He warily casts an inward glance toward the figures hovering in the back of his mind, silent for once. He’s too preoccupied with what he did to her than to care about his own torment for now. He wonders suddenly whether she only sees his past in her dreams or…A shiver runs down his spine when he remembers all of a sudden the flood of weird images and unknown emotions invading his mind when he linked their souls together. They stand before his mind’s eye as clear as day, like his own memories do. Feel just like them, in fact.

And then, with an almost audible click, something registers that is so blatantly obvious that he wonders how the bleeding hell he, even in his jumbled mind, could’ve missed it before.

It’s not only her who’s got insight in his past and his emotions now; it works the other way round as well. He knew, of course; that’s how he suddenly understood what she’d been dreaming of earlier. But it’s only now that he catches on to what that means.

He sits very still for a long time then, breathing hard, his eyes wide open with horror, as he, for the first time, lets the inherited images sink in.

Images that, in their cruelty, compete with those she probably got from him. Only in a much worse way. Because it’s not about what she did. It’s about what was done to her.

He struggles to bring a semblance of order into the whirlwind of images and emotions that had almost overwhelmed him when he got them, so much so that he shoved them aside and chose to ignore them, too focused on his own misery. But now that he opens himself up to them he realizes that it’s different from what she obviously received from him. Judging from what she dreamed of, she mostly got images of his deeds. No wonder, seeing that it’s the souls that are linked, and his is keeping itself busy with being tortured by exactly those.

What he discerns as hers is completely different. There are pictures of what seems to be her past as well; a lot of pictures of events that must have occurred in her childhood, pictures of Joyce, of Dawn and a man, probably their father. It’s the feeling of security that dominates those memories of her early years, of warmth and love surrounding her; a feeling that apparently didn’t leave her during the first months of slaying, when she developed her surrogate family consisting of the Scoobies and the Watcher. 

It’s the smallest part of what he got from her, though.

The rest, by far the biggest part of her emotions, is tinted in a blue so dark that it resembles black.

Pictures of Angel whirl through his mind, and Angelus. The prat Parker is there and Captain Cardboard. He feels agony rolling through her, through him, feels her world shattering around her, him, feels abandoned, left behind, feels herhis heart break again and again. He can almost feel something breaking in her, something she was never capable of restoring.

More and more he feels the burden of being the Slayer weighing on herhim, the burden of ultimately carrying the weight of the world alone. Feels the light being sucked out of, the blackness closing in on them, penetrating more and more the walls they have erected around their heart for protection.

And then there’s a bright light shining into them, warming them, holding them secure again.

He knows it’s when his own emptiness engulfed him completely; it’s when she jumped. For her it was a jump into salvation, the relief from the life as the Slayer, knowing she saved the world, saved the ones she loved.

He feels the peace surrounding her, him, the warmth, the love she talked about that day in the shadows. The completeness.

And then he feels it shattering around himself, herself. Everything that was bright around her, in her, turns into darkness, black and cold, sweeping upon her, into her.

He lives through the suffocating horror of finding herself in her grave, relives his own awakening too, not quite sure which is what, both equally terrifying. Sees her coming back to the world, feels, like her, that it must be hell.

Sees her so called friends closing in on her like the blackness before, suffocating like the soil above her grave. Black, black, everything is dark. He feels her searching for the tiniest ray of brightness, but there’s none.

And then there is. Not brightness, really, more of a little less blackness from time to time. And every time this occurs, there’s his face. _Why are you always around when I’m miserable?_ He feels a tiny sliver of the lost peace settling into her each time he’s there, and he can feel the longing for it increasing, rising in her like a snake rearing its head, and then grabbing it, plunging in, plummeting into an even deeper abyss, drowning in hatred. And he knows that’s when she jumped him, and destroyed the little she had before, irrevocably.

What remains is only pitch black darkness.

He leans his head against the wall, fighting off the tears that are, again, pricking behind his eyelids, and feels as helpless as ever. How is he, how is anyone supposed to help her out of that deep hole of despair?

But he had once helped her, hadn’t he? Had succeeded when nobody else had. _Knew I could get a grin_. And, judging by the images poured into his mind, he hadn’t been entirely wrong in his assessment of hers. He had given her a shred of the much needed light once in a while.

He lifts his head, straightens and stands, crossing her room on legs still trembling from weakness, and sits on her bed.

If he could do this then, without the benefit of a soul, who said he couldn’t do it again?

 _Because she sees now what you really are, you git_ , an incessant voice inside him whispers, _a monster._

He shakes his head, partly to get rid of the voice taunting him, partly because he knows it’s not the entire truth. Because she didn’t run off when she understood what it was that she was dreaming about. It wasn’t the monster that chased her away. She knew exactly what she was dealing with even before. It may repulse her, but it’s not all that new to her to scare her away.

He shivers violently when he realizes it was the part of him she recognized as making more of a man out of him that frightened her so much.

 _That_ is new, and _that_ is what doesn’t fit.

And all of a sudden he understands.

That is not what she needs him to be. Not a man.

She needs him to be the monster.

All those hours in his crypt and later in her room she was insecure. She felt that something profound had changed, and even if she couldn’t pinpoint what it was, it left the ground under her feet shaky.

The moment she understood where the images in her head came from, she found herself on solid ground again. Much more solid than it had been for weeks, because finally her world was right again in that twisted way she’d learned to live with. Finally she could see him as more of a monster than herself again. And _that_ was what she’d needed to find her footing. _You’re an evil, soulless thing_. Not her, but him.

He remembers the night in the alley again, when she pounded her fists and her fears into him, and he understands now what he’d missed before. He’d thought she’d needed him to be a man when she spat her hatred against herself over him; instead, she’d needed him to take the burden of being the monster. But he didn’t oblige. Even then, he was more human than she felt herself to be.

He righted that wrong for her when he gave her the nightmare of his past. But then he went and took that away from her the very next moment; when he bared his soul to her, literally.

The tears he fought off before spill now, gliding down his cheeks unnoticed.

He failed her again.

Even when he does everything right, he still fails her.

He sinks down on her pillow, breathes in her scent; caresses the linen, then clenches his fists into it.

He doesn’t know if she still wants him to be here, on her bed no less, but he knows he’s too weak to leave yet, can’t even stand on his feet long enough to go down to the basement. When he feels sleep slowly rolling over him, he gives in without hesitation.

Despite the war raging in his head, within seconds he’s fast asleep.

Had he known he was mimicking the Slayer in his crypt to a T, his sleep certainly would’ve been much brighter.

 

                                               ******************************************

 

_There’s always laughter._

_He’s never quite sure whether it’s him or them laughing; it sounds suspiciously like his voice, though._

_Also, he remembers always laughing with glee, feeling the blood, the fear, flowing between his lips, seeing the light in their eyes breaking by frightened inevitability, sensing death sneaking closer, paralyzing the bodies in his arms just before they were getting limp._

_The noises he always heard of_ them _were different. Screams. Pleas. Whimpers. Cries. He knows; he’s been hearing them enough since Africa._

_And yet, suddenly he knows they are laughing, too. Layered upon the screams and whimpers, there are their laughs, as painfully gleeful as his own always had been. He lets go of the lifeless body in his arms to jerk his hands over his ears, to shut the hurtful noise out, but it’s futile. They are in his head, he can’t shut them out._

_“Not half as funny being on the receivin’ end, is it?” Her voice drips in his mind like the blood trickling from his chin, a faint echo of his words to her; once upon a time._

_“No,” he cries, his hands frantically digging in his head, trying to reach the laughing voices and hers, rip them out._

_No, not hers. Hers he wants to keep. Even when she’s mocking him. She hurt him more and he bore it, right? He can bear that, too; even when he did this for her._

_But he can’t reach the voices anyway, so no use to think about what is worth keeping. He tries something different then, begins to beat the bodies down like demons, batter the laughter out of them. He slaughters them, one by one, good times. But the laughter doesn’t end; rises higher, surrounds him, thunders down from above. It’s eerily paired with the empty staring eyes beneath him, the bloody limbs piled around him._

_“I’m sorry,” he whispers, but the laughter drowns it out. There are too many of them._

_He feels a hand in his then, dragging him away, away from his victims, out into the sunny day. There’s finally silence, nothing there but sun, and he feels it sizzle on his face, his hands._

_“I can’t be here. The sun,” he whispers, “burns me.”_

_He feels her hand on his cheek then, caressing. “No, it doesn’t,” she says. He looks at his hand, and in wonder he sees that she’s right. He can feel it, the sizzle of the sun, but there’s no fire. “It hurts,” she says, “but you’ll get used to it. I should know.”_

_“Why are you doing this?” he asks. Laughter again, but it’s hers this time, bubbling from her lips with mirth. Soothing his sore ears and mind._

_“Because I heard you,” she says softly, and he believes her._

_He looks up and sees her then, and he shrinks back a little. She’s covered in blood. Blood from his victims, he knows. She’s sitting beside the pile of limbs he left, sinking her arms in, cupping them at their torn apart ends to collect the blood and smears it on her legs, her breast, her face. Her sun lotion._

_When she looks up, he sees bright traces from her eyes down to her chin, white tracks within the red. “I only try to soften the brightness,” she says._

_Red drops are raining down on her collar, leaving more and more light tracks on her face. He can see that it hurts her._

_“Where there is a monster, there is hope,” she whispers, watching his hand reaching out for her. They both see wisps of smoke rising, watch the flames erupting from his skin._

_And then his hand crumbles to dust._

_But when he looks at her, he sees her holding it, tightly pressed to her chest._

_The last thing he hears is laughter._

 

                                   ******************************************

 

_It’s a rush. It’s the strongest, richest blood she ever tasted, and it makes her feel euphoric. She looks down on the beaten corpse of the young Chinese girl, and for a split second, she’s almost sad that the dance already ended. But then pride takes over again; the girl was a bloody great fighter, the best she ever fought with, she knows that. Slowly she lifts her finger to her lips and watches it, when she hears a sound. She whirls around to see herself standing at a pillar, her face contorted in disgust._

_“You got off on it,” she hears herself spitting, and then answers with Spike’s voice, “Well, yeah. Suppose you’re telling me you don’t?”_

_And then he’s there. “I’m a vampire,” he suddenly snarls at her, “I’m supposed to be treading on the dark side!” And he shoves her hard, and then he straddles her as she’s lying on the floor. “What’s your excuse?”_

_“They brought me back wrong! It’s not my fault! I’m not responsible!” she yells, but he’s not there anymore. It’s Tara’s face looking at her now, with pity clearly written in her eyes._

_“I’m sorry, Buffy, but you are. You’re not a monster. You only behave like one.”_

_“No,” she cries, “Spike’s the monster. He’s just a thing. He can’t feel anything real!” She feels strong arms around her then, his arms. She yearns to sink into them, fall down into him and never come up again. “Come with me to the dark side. This is where you belong,” his silken voice whispers into her ear, and oh, she wants it. So much. But she can’t, because her friends would never let her go. Not with him. They tore her back as the monster she is now, but they won’t allow her to be one. “You’re supposed to be there, with me. Be a monster, just like me,” he whispers._

_She turns around, and they both stand on the campus. The sun is glistening in his bright hair, and his eyes sparkle with joy. She can’t move; she’s frozen to the spot. “But you’re not a monster anymore, are you?” she whispers trembling._

_The sun sets rapidly, and they both watch silently, until he suddenly slumps to his knees, staring at the spot the last rays of sun had shone on a second ago, leaving the world in never ending darkness. “Yes, I am,” he says, and he sounds completely heartbroken. “I’m the worst. I killed them all.”_

_“No, you didn’t,” Tara’s cheery voice is suddenly there, and when she turns, she can see the witch right in front of her again, her face now graced with an encouraging smile. “There’s nothing wrong with you, I double checked. You’re the same old Buffy, always hurting the ones you love.” She smiles with friendliness, even when she begins suddenly throwing her fists into Buffy’s face. It hurts like hell, because she’s visibly putting a lot of anger into it. Only that it’s herself beating her up, on the wet ground of a dark and dank alley. She knows she’s strong enough to counter the blows, to throw the other Buffy off of her, but she doesn’t. She takes the blows, and she feels her heart twisting at seeing the pain on the Slayer’s face. She wants to catch her in her arms, hold her until the pain ebbs away, give her a reason not to go into that building and throw her life away, but she knows Buffy won’t listen to her. She tried everything she could, and this taking the beating is all the Slayer is able to accept. So she lies still and takes it, encourages her even, “lay it all on me.”_

_In a blur, she shifts into the position above him, above Spike, and between her punches he always seeks out her eyes, pleading with his. “I know that I’m a monster. But you treat me like a man. And that…” It’s barely understandable what he mumbles, his lips are split open and swollen. “You’re dead inside,” she yells, “I can’t treat you like a man. You’re a monster because I treat you like one. I should know, because I didn’t come back wrong.”_

_“Oh, baby, of course not,” a soothing voice whispers in her ear. Loving hands lift her up, embrace her. “You saved the world. A lot. How could you be a monster?”_

_She cries into her mom’s shoulder, waiting for Joyce to kiss it better. “Mom, “she cries, “are you in heaven? Are we in heaven?”_

_“Of course we are. Look around.”_

_She turns, and everything is bright and warm and safe. “You belong with me, in the light,” she hears and spins around. Spike is there, holding her by her hand, warming her with his gaze. She sees a thin whisk of smoke rising from his cheek, then another._

_“Spike,” she shouts frantically, “you can’t be here, with me! You belong to the dark!”_

_“Is that so?” he asks, smirking. “Maybe I can learn to live in the light, if you help me. A man can change, you know?” And then he crumbles to dust before her eyes, and with that, the light fades away, until she’s in utter darkness. It’s so dark then that she can’t see a thing, and she barely can breathe. She feels around herself and realizes that she’s in a big box. She tries to open the lid, but it doesn’t work, no matter how forcefully she pushes. The air she sucks in with difficulty tastes stale, used somehow, and she knows instantly that she has to get out of here if she doesn’t want to die. She pushes again, and now she feels the soft fabric beneath her fingers. She’s in a coffin. Her coffin. Panic sweeps over her; she’s been buried alive! Or dead, she corrects herself, and torn out of the light. Into the dark, into her coffin. She pushes and rips and punches. The skin on her hands splits open like Spike’s lips, and then dirt rains into her face, her eyes, mouth, nose, everywhere, and threatens to suffocate her. She punches again, and her hand suddenly snaps through the wood, and she can feel the cool night air on her skin. Or is it cool skin on her skin? A hand that grabs hers and pulls, and then she’s out, and she is pulling him out, out of her grave._

_“Knew I could get a grin,” he smiles, and she’s relieved beyond belief that she’s not alone out here this time._

_“Why?” she asks, and she doesn’t know whether she means why she is here or why is he. Or, maybe, why doesn’t she feel so cold anymore. She feels his hand on her cheek, feathery light._

_“Told you I could change.” His eyes lock with hers, connect them, solidly, but at the same time as light as his touch. “For you,” he says._

_She nods. “You are…you are here, with me. And that is…” He only looks at her, and she nods again. “Thank you.”_

_They turn toward her back yard, sitting on the stairs of her porch, bluely lit by the moon._

_Silently. In peace._

 


	14. Sigh no more

** Chapter 14 **

**Sigh no more**

_(Title from a song by Mumford and Sons)_

 

 

From one second to the next Spike’s wide awake. He feels oddly unsettled, so much so that he’s sure, had he a heartbeat, it would race in his chest now. He shakes his head impatiently, trying to chase away the last remnants of a weird dream he doesn’t quite remember.

It takes him only seconds to conclude that he’s alone in the house; as much as he reaches out with his senses, there’s no one. She didn’t come back.

He sighs, rolls on his side and then proceeds to sit up, slowly, taking his time to figure out his strength. Not too bad, he thinks while rising to his feet, standing then without effort. The blood finally did its healing work.

That and sleeping through the whole day, he notices a little irritated, seeing that dusk already set in. He briefly wonders where the girls are, the niblet and the witch, but then his thoughts drift to Buffy.

Of course they do.

He’s not the least bit surprised that she didn’t come back. She ran for a reason, after all. Avoidance, thy name is Buffy.

It still stings.

He considers waiting for her; she can’t avoid coming home forever, and he could force her to deal, one way or another. _Yeah, because that always went so well for you, you prat._

He sighs again and walks over to the window, stares into the darkness, and finds himself hoping against hope. Then he squares his shoulders. He doesn’t need her anymore; not for protecting him, that is. He’s strong enough to fight his battles alone again, thanks to her. And willing to do so in the first place, also thanks to her. He’ll go back to his crypt, back to where he belongs. He may have a soul now, but he is still a vampire, still only a guest in the house of the living.

For a moment he contemplates leaving her a message, _I’m sorry for scaring you_. Nah. Denial-girl would probably just be angered by the offending thought of him scaring her. Just _I’m sorry_? But, apart from scaring her, he isn’t sorry. Not for getting his soul and even less for doing it for her. For not telling her? Well, he isn’t sorry for that either. If he’d gotten his wish, she would’ve never found out. Besides, until now he was in no condition to tell her anyway.

Impatiently shaking his head, he dismisses the idea of leaving a few words for her and stalks to her door. He’s already halfway through when he dashes back, frantically searching for a piece of paper and a pencil. When he doesn’t find one, he races into Dawn’s room, tears a page from one of her notebooks on her desk, and writes just two words. He returns to Buffy’s room and gingerly places the sheet on her pillow, his fingertips lingering a second longer on the fabric, before he finally severs the connection.

He can only hope she’ll understand how much she has given him.

 

He leaves with a last glance to the paper. These words she can’t possibly take offense in, right? It’s important to him to let her know, and he has the distinct feeling that it’ll take a while to see her again. So he wrote it down. Just two words, but right now, they mean the world to him.

_Thank you._

 

                                   **************************************

 

When Buffy slowly drifts to wakefulness, the first thing she realizes is his scent. The second is the sense of peace still hovering from her dream that is weirdly reinforced by his scent.

The third is the reason for his scent; she’s still in his crypt, because she fell asleep on his bed. And with that, everything rushes back to her and she sits bolt upright. The peace she felt is gone in an instant, leaving her heart hammering in her chest all of a sudden. She can’t be here. Whatever her dream was trying to tell her, she’s not ready to face it. Not yet.

Which means, she’s not ready to face _him_ yet.

Even if a part of her scolds her for being such a wimp.

Probably that part of her that feels eerily compelled to stay here.

She scrambles out of his bed, her hand lingering for a second on the sheets, but then she snatches it back as if burnt, and she feels heat rushing up in her cheeks, abashed about her indecisiveness. And then, just like that, instinct takes over; the same as before, the one that was telling her to run last night. It propels her up the ladder and out of the crypt, and when she slows down, she’s already halfway to Revello Drive. 

That’s when she realizes that it’s more than possible that he’s still there, in her house. In her room.

In her bed.

For a spilt second there, her pace quickens. Until her brain kicks in.

She’s irritated. First her instincts tell her to run, then they lead her to his crypt. Let her fall asleep, in his bed no less. Then, again, they shoo her away from his place, only to race her to where he still might be.

Damn, childish, unreliable instincts.

How the hell is she supposed to know what to do, if neither her brain nor her instincts stay true to the direction once chosen?

She raises her chin defiantly, her steps that had slowed down when she became aware of the acceleration getting determined. She strides out, eyes held ahead; the small tremor in her hands going almost unnoticed. It’s certainly coincidence that she shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket, and then a little deeper.

She ignores the thundering of her heart as best as she can when she, most hesitantly, enters her home. But she knows it the second she’s inside; he’s no longer here.

She relaxes and refuses to wonder whether it’s into relief or disappointment.

Shrugging off her jacket and disposing it at the coatrack, she calls out for her sister, then for Willow, but neither one of them answers. In the kitchen she finds a message pinned to the fridge, in Dawn’s still so girlish writing.

_Buffy,_

_I’m going to the Magic Box after school, giving you two some peace and quiet._

_Call me there if you need anything (more blood?),_

_Dawn_

For a moment, anger bubbles up in her. Giving you two some peace and quiet? How dare she assume…And then it occurs to her it’s probably not at all what her sister assumes. It’s just what her own guilty mind makes out of harmless words, like all those weeks before. Like, say, connecting the question of having had a rough night automatically with the secret sexcapades against the tree in their front yard just mere minutes before. Ugh. No, Dawn only meant what she wrote; she’d seen Spike last night, after all, and she knows he needed to rest.

Which brings her to the next question: where is he?

She checks the living room, just to be sure, before she rushes upstairs.

She sees it the second she’s opened the door, the slip of paper on her pillow. Just two words.

That’s when she knows - she won’t see him soon.

And once more she wonders if it’s relief washing through her.

Or what else it could be.

 

                                   **************************************

 

This time, she doesn’t hide in her room. 

Not because it isn’t what she’d love to do. She’s still afraid of the inevitable confrontation with the others, reluctant to bear the wary glances cast toward her.

Terrified to meet Spike while patrolling.

But there’s also a tiny piece of her that wants to see her sister, her friends. That is determined to partake in normal life again. So she braces herself and goes back into the world.

There _are_ wary glances in the beginning, and from time to time there’s the odd pause in conversation, and then inevitably someone hastily begins to speak about, well, something. She knows that’s when someone bit their tongue to prevent themselves from asking an intruding question, commenting somehow on what happened.

She’s relieved they do bite their tongues then. She’s not yet prepared to answer, to explain.

How could she, when she doesn’t understand herself?

They are getting better in avoidance, all of them. They had time enough to practice after all.

Even so it’s hard enough to find her footing again, at least going through the motions like before.

It takes a few days for her to realize that the colors of the world surrounding her slowly, slowly begin to change.

It starts when, two days later, she sits in the kitchen with Dawn, sipping a coffee her sister has brewed almost perfectly, and listening to some weird story she tells her about a cat of one of her class mates, that somehow got tangled in her little brother’s toys and ended up with a horn firmly attached to one of its paws. Dawn bursts out laughing at the memory of the poor cat, dancing around through the house, honking with each step, while being chased by two teenage girls determined to help the pet, and Buffy feels herself smiling.

Really smiling.

It’s the first time since she came back that she actually can feel the smile, not as painful distorting of her features, but deep down in her belly, spreading warmth throughout her whole body.

It feels good.

The next day she sits on her porch, staring into the distance, trying to figure out how to get a new job. No selling double sweet double meats for her anymore; her vanishing for a few weeks saw to that. Not that she mourns the loss of that hell job, but they still need to eat. She hugs herself tightly, at least partly to protect herself from the cool breeze on that cloudy day, when she notices the sudden warmth on her skin. She stares at her arm, almost shining golden in the light of the sun that is peeking out from behind a cloud. She stares at it for a long time, her heartbeat accelerating in excitement at the wonder of having felt the warmth before she saw it. She never did before, not since heaven. Not like now, and she feels the sunbeams warming her not only on the outside, but also deep down, at the same place she felt her smile blossom the other day.

From then on, things become a little easier, bit by tiny bit a little brighter. It’s not that everything is right as rain all of a sudden; she still feels mostly numb, the world around her mostly bleak. But here and there small slivers of light slip in, dimmed somehow, not light enough to brighten her days; but light nonetheless. Too rare to become even remotely familiar, too rare also to go by unnoticed - a foot tapping the rhythm to a song not heard for ages; the feel of ice cream melting on her tongue. Small things only, but it makes all the difference to take notice of them at all.

Maybe, if one of her friends had asked her now, she would’ve answered. About how she really feels all the time; how hard every day is, how much effort it takes to get up in the morning, to go through the daily routine.

But no one ever asks.

What needed active avoiding in the beginning has silently slipped into forgetting.

They don’t even ask about Spike, regardless of the entrance the both of them had made that night. Willow, who promised her support then, is too preoccupied with her own life, with keeping from using magic and trying to win Tara back, to remember showing interest. And Dawn, well, Dawn actually does ask about him when first she stomps back into the house, but seems to be content with hearing Buffy’s brief answer that the blood she brought really helped and that he’s okay now. She’s probably just too much of a teenager; Buffy back, Spike okay - good. Her once so close relationship to the vampire has cooled off distinctly ever since Buffy’s been alive again and he never came to see the Slayer’s little sis anymore, and soon other things are of more importance, like which shirt to wear with the new jeans and which boy shot her a side way glance.

Not even Buffy hitting one of her best friends is a subject anyone ever talks about.

They make up though, she and Xander; kind of. In light of the impending wedding they can’t afford that kind of grudge held against each other, best friends that they have been for years. But they don’t talk things out either; neither of them makes any effort. Just some _I shouldn’t have hit you_ ’s and a few _I’m sorry I talked that way to you’_ s, mixed with lots of best-friends credits and a bear hug in the end, that’s it. Not a word about what they truly think or, beware, feel. The uneasiness that sneaks up on Buffy about another missed opportunity is being shrugged off, hidden away into that dark chamber in her mind that fills up more and more lately with thoughts better unthought.

She resumes patrolling every night, always coincidentally – if with a racing heart - passing by his crypt; but she never catches a glimpse of Spike.

She’s not sure whether it hurts less than seeing him.

 

                                   ************************************

 

This time, he doesn’t hide in his crypt. His past haunts him wherever he is, so he might as well go out and distract himself, now that he’s mostly lucid again. Go to Willy’s, meet Clem, do stuff. Maybe meet the Slayer somewhere, too.

It’s not the same as before though, being at Willy’s, meeting other demons. Their constant bragging about all the marvelous havoc they wreaked, plus the knowledge that he used to be one of them, not only repulses him, but makes him feel the urge to huddle in a dark corner and bury his ears beneath his arms. So no, it’s not the same as before.

Nothing is.

He never lasts long at Willy’s, and after barely escaping a beginning brawl at the poker table on his first night out, he avoids the back room; the mere thought of fighting causes him nausea. So he just sits at the bar for a beer or two and keeps to himself. Then he pays and leaves, trying to appear as if not fleeing when in truth he really is.

He usually takes a long walk then, strolling through the streets of Sunnydale and telling himself he’s patrolling; but he almost always only walks the streets still busy with people, and he’s not sure if it’s the fighting or the Slayer he keeps dodging.

Because, as much as he yearns to be with her, he is as afraid to see her still scared or, worse even, disinterested.

After a while he usually heads home to his crypt; buys some pig’s blood at the butcher’s and some more beer on the way and, since the night he resumed smoking again, some fags at the all night grocery store. He sits in his ratty armchair, stares at the telly, mostly unseeingly, and tries to distract himself until the new day dawns.

Tries to not listen for her steps outside the door.

As soon as the sun is up he descends the ladder to his basement and lies down on his bed, the bed that still smells of her even though he washed the sheets, and pretends to sleep.

Tries to not add another day that she didn’t come to the ones before.

He never really sleeps though. Sometimes he begins to drift away, but the voices in his head always bring him mercilessly back to reality. Too unbearable are they still, and to stay halfway sane, he mostly snatches a book then and reads through the rest of the day.

Till nightfall he’s usually so on edge that he leaves again no sooner than the last sunlight has died. Go to Willy’s, do stuff. Maybe meet the Slayer somewhere, too.

But whenever he senses her from afar, he bails.

Even though he’s not sure he can cope better with the pain of not seeing her.

 

                                   *****************************************

 

Almost a week passes by until the routine changes.

It’s the word ‘Mala’hla’ that rings in Spike’s ears like an alarm clock one night at Willy’s. They are a rare species, and no way is this coincidence, a second Mala’hla appearing so shortly after the one that shoved them into the portal.

It’s almost funny, he thinks, how quickly his will to stay abstinent from fighting and killing is forgotten, given the right motivation. It’s not the thought of revenge though that drives him to the booth the word floated off. It’s only concern for the Slayer; at least that’s what he tells himself.

Still, his hands itch suspiciously to ball into fists as he approaches the two vamps sitting there, and he feels all that pent-up pain and disappointment boiling into rage within seconds, directed at the demon that had almost damned the Slayer to go to hell, literally. He reins it in, though, as much as he can - he wants an answer, after all - so he addresses one of the vamps, barely more than fledglings both, almost politely.

“Heard you had a run in with a Mala’hla, mate.”

They both turn their heads and look up at him, and a smug grin spreads on the younger one’s face. “If this isn’t William the Bloody in need of information,” he sneers. “What’s the trouble, _mate_ , the Slayer doesn’t keep you in the loop any longer?”

With a scrunching sound Spike’s fist connects with the fledgling’s nose. Well, there goes politeness, he thinks, and that it’s bloody overrated anyway. He kicks the second one, coming to his fellow’s aid, in the gut, eliciting an unpleasant ‘oomph’, and flings him against the nearest wall where he lands in a heap on the floor, obviously unconscious. He hauls the first one up by his collar; all smugness has left the vamp. Instead he’s defiantly raising his chin, but fear flickers in his eyes, and after a second he averts them as best as he can. Which proves difficult, seeing that Spike holds him face to face, only inches apart.

“Talk.” His voice has dropped dangerously low with this one word he says; he feels a tremor running through the fledgling’s body, and almost triumphantly he recognizes the chill of a good hunt.

After a brief look to his unmoving buddy the vamp caves in. “I didn’t see the Mala’hla myself, just heard of him”, he all but whimpers. “There are these boys, humans all three of them, and I heard they summoned him to do their bidding.” He tries halfheartedly to wriggle free, but Spike just has to tighten his grip a little to make him stop obediently.

Spike knows enough already. Three boys - of course. But it feels just too good to see the fledgling’s reaction, the terror he inflicts on him. It’s as if a shell around him that held him paralyzed bursts open all of a sudden, lets him move more freely, lets him breathe again, if tentatively. So he lets his eyes flash golden for a second, jerks the vampire a bit closer and asks again with that deep, low voice, “Where?”

“I don’t know”, the fledge whispers and closes his eyes in defeat.

Spike breathes in deeply, and then, with a swift movement of one arm, he flings the vamp against the nearest wall, watches him landing with a thud next to his chum and staying there without moving. He smooths the lapels of his duster, and with a derisive snort toward the two heaps on the floor he turns to the bar. He downs his beer, gives Willy a nod and leaves.

On the dark street he walks a few steps to the left, then he feels his knees giving way to his weight, the elation he felt just seconds ago giving way to horror. For weeks he’d been sickened by even thinking about violence of any kind, and now it seems as if the old reflexes not only are still there, but one of them is still to rejoice in violence. Kneeling in the dirt of the alley, he fights off that damn feeling of nausea. Just a few weeks ago he couldn’t even remember nausea, and nowadays it apparently is lurking everywhere.

He swallows convulsively to not give in to the urge to throw up, to rid himself of the fucking _delight_ he felt. He inhales the cool night air deeply, breathes in and out until it gets a little better. He steadies himself at the wall beside him and slowly rises to his feet again. For a moment he feels ridiculous; they were just demons, and he didn’t even kill them. But that’s not it. It’s not about what he did or to whom, it’s about how good it felt; how very much he liked it, seeing the fear in the vamp’s face, listening to his blood singing in his veins, cheering him on, feeling the power in his hands - that’s what has shaken him to the core.

It’s not supposed to be this way. The bloody soul is supposed to stop him from feeling that good while beating up somebody, no matter demon or human.

Because if it doesn’t, how can he be sure not to hurt the wrong people? The ones he loves even?

It’s moments like this that he curses his soul; when it not just isn’t of any help, but leaves him in fact even more confused than before, while a big chunk of reason for gaining that sodding thing was to solve his confusion, to finally _understand_.

His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, and then he walks tentatively forward on shaky legs, trying to find his equilibrium.

It gets easier, his steps get more confident the second he focuses on what he learned tonight. Three boys, summoning the demon that shoved them into the prison dimension the Slayer had no way to escape. Well, unless the vampire that was pushed in with her by accident was the one being that not only knew how to help her, but also was willing to do about anything for her, of course.

Three boys out to make Buffy’s life difficult. Like, say, shooting her with invisibility rays. Or giving her groundhog hours. He suspects the Rwasundi in the woods with the dead girl was their doing, too.

No coincidence, that much is clear.

If those wankers still had the Mala’hla around, there had to be something done about it. If he was right, then it wasn’t the boys’ first attempt at getting rid of the Slayer, and it would most likely not remain the last. Of course that wasn’t anything new to Buffy; someone striving for killing her is her day-to-day routine. He’d been part of that routine himself once. But this is different; they all clearly underestimated the capabilities of those geeks. Bot boy is a technic genius, as Spike once experienced on his own, and the little what’s-his-face has already very successfully summoned demons for their liking. And there must be a capable witch, too. Creating those hours-that-wouldn’t-end was not an easy task, and he’s quite sure that the dead girl, that apparently had been long since dead when time went wonky, but seemed very much alive nonetheless, must’ve been the work of a witch too; the small boy probably, whom he dimly remembers having cast that super hero spell upon himself; Jonathan, he thinks. They need to be stopped. But first of all, the Mala’hla has to be stopped; and now he finally has a clue where to start with the search.

Gaining momentum, his strides get longer and faster by the minute. Mala’hlas are a lot bigger than he is, and pretty strong.

He’ll need weapons first.

 

***

 

He knows someone’s inside as soon as he gets to his crypt. Warily he pushes the door open, but relaxes instantly when his nose catches a well-known scent.

“Big sis know you’re here?”

Dawn turns from the niche with the small window where she’s fidgeting with one of the candles.

“Does she know _you_ are?” She gives him a measuring look, chin raised up defiantly. Oh, she’s good at reading between the lines, always has been. He glares back for a few seconds, then he lets it slide.

“That’s not the point, and you know it. She’ll be worrying sick, you out alone in the dark, with all the nasties around.”

Dawn turns back to the interesting work with the candles and shrugs. “She won’t even notice. She never does.” And very quietly, “No one does.”

He gives her a sharp look, and with a pang he realizes what he missed all those months. She feels alone. Regret bubbles up in him; he did his fair share in neglecting her. After Buffy came back he wasn’t needed as sitter anymore, and nothing except Buffy seemed important to him anyway. As much as he loves Dawn, as much as he still would do anything to keep her safe, he has to concede that he didn’t spend a lot of time thinking of her.

He moves a little closer, his hand reluctantly rising, but then he turns away from her, toward his fridge.

“Want something to drink? ‘m pretty sure Clem left some Mountain Dew.”

Her head turns around. “That’d be great, thanks.” Her body follows the motion of her head and she walks a few steps, then hops on the sarcophagus. It’s her invitation to talk, he knows that; it’s their usual talking-place. He retrieves the promised drink out of the fridge and tosses the can over to her, pours himself some blood from a bag into a glass and flavors it with some burba weed and a shot of bourbon. Obediently, he sits opposite her on the coffin, his legs dangling to each side, even though he’s itching to go find the demon, and hopefully kill it. But a ‘sorry, not now, Dawn’ won’t cut it; he can’t do that to her.

They both sip their respective drinks in silence for a while, and he’s surprised how good it feels, how familiar still. The bond is still there, he realizes, just not as tight as it once was.

“What brings you?” he finally breaks the silence.

“What keeps you away?” she counters, and underneath the bratty, petulantly challenging tone of hers he can hear that she’s seriously pissed, but he discerns also uncertainty, worry maybe. He still thinks about how to answer that, because, really, what could he tell her, when she eventually loses her patience. ”What did happen to you that night, Spike?”

He contemplates her for a little while longer. “’d you ask the Slayer?” he then asks warily. This is something he is actually quite curious about - what Buffy would tell the Scoobies. But Dawn just snorts.

“What do you think?”

He nods. Just as he suspected. Her so-called best friends, and still no one cared enough to risk a fight, a breakdown or anything at all. Not even Dawn.

“She wouldn’t have told me anything anyways,” she mutters.

He leans a little closer; he wants her to listen, really hear this. “Maybe she’ll surprise you.”

The glance she shoots him is definitely wooden and pointy. “Yeah, sure.” Then her face gets this look, all puppy eyes, all pleading. “I’ve never seen you like that before, Spike. And I’ve never seen Buffy this worried before, about any of them. She hit Xander when he complained about you being in her room, did you know that?”

He can’t prevent a small smile tugging on his lips for a moment; of course he remembers, how could he not? “Yeah, that she did.” But then the smile vanishes. It’s almost a week now, and the last he saw of her was not her defending him with her fists.

He straightens; it doesn’t matter. What matters is finding the demon.

He finally reaches out and gently strokes Dawn’s cheek. She shoots him an alarmed glance, and he knows why; he never shows his affection like that. He yells at her, grabs her by the arm to drag her somewhere, calls her Niblet and his little bit; but he never is so gentle to her, almost tender.

Very deliberately he briefly cups her cheek and strokes again before he lets his hand sink back in his lap. “Look, Niblet, I was a little out of it, kinda sick, and she just helped me to get on my feet again. But I’m alright now, see?” And he makes a show of posing, complete with the look-at-me-I’m-not-only-full-of-muscles-but-also-really-dangerous look on his face. She cracks a smile, that’s something, right? He hops from the sarcophagus and walks to his weapon chest. “And that’s why I have to take care of something.” He rummages in the trunk and fishes an axe out, and after thinking about it for a second he adds a long knife and shoves it into his left boot.

Dawn glides down from the coffin and follows him; seeing what he’s gathering, she perks up. “You’re going out to kill something? Can I come with?” she asks eagerly.

He gives her a slightly exasperated look, annoyed that she forces him to reject her. ”No,” he says, “you really can’t.” When he sees the disappointment on her face, his stance still softens a little. “Sorry, Bit.”

“Why not?” She reaches for his arm to make him stop, to at least think about it. “I could help.”

He gently pries her fingers from his arm and holds her hand in his for a moment, squeezing it before letting her go. “No, you can’t, Dawn. I’m going to kill a really nasty, really big, really strong demon, and trust me, you can’t help with that.”

The use of her given name should’ve told her that he’s serious, but she’s not yet willing to give up; apparently she’s had it with being put aside by everyone, and since he is the only one who ever treated her almost like an adult and not only like the child that needed protection, she throws in everything she has. Her eyes turn pleading, puppy dog style; she knows his weaknesses well and is ready to play them. “I helped you fight that Ghora demon.” And then she brings in her biggest gun. “Of course Buffy doesn’t even know that. If she knew, maybe she’d let me help her too?”

He stares at her indignantly. “First off, _I_ helped _you_. And I remember pretty well having to go in and fight the damn three headed bitch a second round, because _someone_ dropped the soddin’ egg.” He watches her closely, sees her chin rising again, but doesn’t miss the tears welling up in her eyes either; he knows her threat is an empty one, she wouldn’t betray him to her sister; and she knows she lost the battle. He sighs, pushes aside the impulse to embrace her, grabs her shoulders instead and catches her gaze. “Look, Niblet, that demon I’m gonna fight is bloody strong. I can’t be distracted by having to keep you safe, yeah? Even so, ‘specially with the humans around, I don’t know if I…” He trails off, realizing too late that he was about to say too much. He tries to shrug it off, turns away and grabs the weapons he discarded in favor of her shoulders. He hopes she didn’t pick up on it, but of course, it’s Dawn. She’s too good at reading between the lines.

She follows him, and her voice tells him about her furrowed brows even as he avoids seeing them. “This demon is really that dangerous, huh?” she inquires.

“Yeah.”

She’s silent for all of a second. Then she grabs his arm again and forces him to face her, and now he can see fear in her eyes. “If it’s that dangerous, why do you go on your own? And humans? You can’t even fight them!” Her voice is urgent, and he’s touched when he understands that she fears for him. But her next words make him reel back. “Why don’t you take Buffy with you? She’s the Slayer after all; it’s her job, right?”

“No way. I can’t risk her to be shoved in that bloody portal again.” As soon as the words are out he wishes he could catch them and shove them back down his throat. He knows it’s too late though when she leaves him be, her eyes widening in horror. “The Mala’hla?” she whispers. She obviously knows about it; maybe Anya told them how strong and ruthless they were. “But…I thought it was gone.”

“Well, it isn’t,” he replies, his thin wearing patience evident in his voice now. She must have picked up on that, too, because she keeps her mouth shut now, and Spike uses her drop in defense to his advantage to wordlessly drag her along as he leaves his crypt.

When she realizes he’s headed to Revello Drive she looks at him, hope in her eyes, but a glare of his quenches that small flame instantly. She glares back, but remains silent, until he pushes the front door open and shoves her inside, not without making sure first that there’s no Slayer in the house.

“Stay,” he says and turns on his heels.

“But I…”

He whirls back, his eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare tell her.”

He sees her swallowing hard, and for a second he is tempted to go back inside and reassure her, embrace her, tell her that he’ll be back safe and sound, that nothing will happen to him. That he still loves her. But then she nods, and he doesn’t do any of this. He just turns and leaves.

 


	15. Twice removed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for the kudos and comment! I'm so happy to see someone's reading and liking!

** Chapter 15 **

**Twice removed**

_(Title from an album by Sloane)_

 

Buffy knows that something is seriously wrong the second she enters her home and finds her sister nervously pacing in the hall.

“What is it?”

The hastily spoken words have barely left her lips when she finds herself with an armful of Dawn, which is most concerning in itself as neither of the Summers sisters is big in the hugging department.

“I’m not supposed to tell, but it’s not betrayal if it’s an emergency, right?” Buffy is torn; she’s relieved that it seems to be just an issue of wanting to be loyal to someone that has Dawn so upset. Then again – emergency? Oh, yeah, there hasn’t been an emergency for at least a week. It has almost been boring lately, and no one wants that, right? But an emergency can mean anything between the end of the world - the new edition - and her favorite t-shirt shrunken where Dawn is concerned.

She sighs and gently disentangles from her sister’s grip; she’s not too worried, not anymore. Leading her to the kitchen, she says, “Why don’t you just tell me what this is about and worry about betrayal later?” She starts to rummage in the fridge; she’s not really hungry; she never is, that still hasn’t changed, but it gives her something to do while Dawn decides whether to fill her in or not. Which is not really a question, since she’s obviously bursting with her secret.

When she begins to explain, though, Buffy wishes she hadn’t.

“It’s Spike.”

Buffy freezes. Her first instinct is to spin around and ask how he is, if he’s been eating, if he healed, if he talked about her, if…Instead she squeezes her eyes shut and forces herself to ignore all the burning questions and to answer as if talking about the weather.

“What about him?” She intended to make it sound disinterested, lighthearted even. She fails, of course, which she knows even before she hears her sister snorting.

“He’s out killing a demon, and he doesn’t want you to know.”

Buffy frowns, bewildered. She closes the fridge without taking something out since nothing in there seems the least bit appealing to her, her appetite glaringly absent now even more than before, and turns around.

“And why is this an emergency? Or potential betrayal, for that matter? Spike kills demons all the time without informing me.” Although apparently not last week, or post soul at all, she thinks and feels her stomach clenching. Something is wrong, she suddenly knows that. Dawn wouldn’t be that upset if there wasn’t a reason.

“Yeah, but not that demon.” Dawn grabs her sister’s hand, and Buffy can see now that she’s not only upset, but scared. Really scared for Spike, which is a first. She always had unlimited trust in the vampire’s ability to fight and survive, and keep everyone alive in the process.

Buffy feels her own fear reemerge with a vengeance, the fear of losing him that held her in iron claws for days last week. The fear that makes it difficult to breathe, to form coherent sentences.

The fear that she refused to think about for the last few days. Like she refused to think about Spike at all.

Of course, that hadn’t worked so well, she’d thought about him all the time anyway.

She closes her eyes, trying hard to collect herself.

“Dawn, listen to me. You have to tell me everything you know. Now.” She’s surprised about how fierce and unwavering her voice sounds, as if she had everything under control, when really she wants nothing but to run, find him and rescue him from whatever danger threatens his life. Even though she knows how ridiculous that is, that he can handle himself at least as well as she can. The knowledge doesn’t help; her knees still feel like mush at the thought of what might happen to him.

She’s appalled at how easily the carefully rebuilt normalcy in her life is crashing around her.

Her eyes bore into her sister’s and finally Dawn spills, whispering, “It’s the Mala’hla demon.” Rolling her eyes about Buffy’s obvious cluelessness she adds, “The one that shoved you into the portal.”

Buffy can feel her eyes widening, but then she relaxes a little; it’s just a demon. Granted, a big one, huge to be exact, but just a demon nonetheless.

But then why does Dawn look so scared? “Is that all? Just one demon?”

Dawn shakes her head. “I think,” she says cautiously, because she’s not really sure about that part, “there are humans involved.”

There it is again, that icy fist around her stomach. Humans against Spike. Plus a huge, extra strong demon. And he has no way to defend himself.

And suddenly, for the very first time, the thought trickles in that there may be a downside to that chip in his head.

“Where?” Her voice, only slightly hoarse, shows that through all her fear, the Slayer is back. Calm, determined. Well, the calm is mostly just pretense, but at least she’s terribly determined.

Which doesn’t really help, she notices when she sees her sister shaking her head again. “He didn’t say.”

“Stay,” she unknowingly echoes the vampire’s order and hurries to her weapons chest. Grabbing her preferred short sword and a knife, she lets her mind race ahead to Willy’s, still the most reliable source of demon rumors.

She’s already at the door when she becomes aware of how forlorn her sister looks as she stands in the hall. She stops in her tracks, even though everything in her longs to race to the demon bar, and steps back to Dawn. She hugs her fiercely, and then she holds her at arm’s length, looking into her eyes, trying to provide the confidence she can’t find for herself; and for the first time in months she’s not just doing her duty in caring for her sister, but feels for her. Really feels.

“I’ll find him, and we’ll be back. I promise. Okay?”

Some of her emotion must have found its way through her eyes, because Dawn smiles tentatively. “I know,” she says quietly.

In turning and rushing off, Buffy calls back, “Call Xander to rally the troops. I may need their help with the humans.”

She doesn’t see or hear a reaction anymore, but she knows Dawn will do what is necessary. She knows the drill.

*

At Willy’s it doesn’t take long to find out what she needs to know. Willy is clueless, but he points to a booth with two vamps in it, telling her that Spike had a conversation with them. He finger quotes conversation, and his gaze glides to a wall where several picture frames are missing, and Buffy has a good idea about the kind of conversation the vampires held.

At the booth, she addresses the one with the swollen nose and wonders briefly if Spike had always hit his opponents in the nose or if she’d rubbed off on him.

“I heard you had a run in with a bleached vampire tonight.”

She raises a brow when the vamp backs away at her words; she is sure he knows that he’s safe from her here, that she won’t dust him at the bar. Spike must have made a good impression, she thinks, and grins for a second.

At the nod her question earned she goes on, “What did you tell him?”

“He asked about the Mala’hla demon. I told him I didn’t know much. Just that the three boys summoned it to do their bidding.”

“Three boys.” Warren, Jonathan and the other one she always forgets the name of. Those annoying little assholes. “That’s it. I’ll deal with those pieces of crap once and for all. Thanks, guys.” She turns away, but as if in an afterthought she whirls back and lets her fists simultaneously crash against both vamp’s temples.

“Ow! What was that for? I was telling you all I know!” Broken Nose complains, indignation on his face.

She grins. “I know.”

And with that she walks to the payphone, informing Dawn where she’s headed next before she leaves the demon bar without a backwards glance.

At first she’s relieved. The boys are annoying, but not really a threat. But then she thinks about what happened with the Mala’hla demon. They’d been ruthless enough to let her die in the portal. And they had already murdered Warren’s ex. They wouldn’t have any qualms about killing Spike. And he was completely defenseless against them. They probably didn’t know that, but when they found out…Also, extra strong demon.

Her pace quickens again until she’s in full race mode, her feet pounding on the pavement in a fast staccato, along with her frightened heart. She knows where to go now; she can only hope she’s not too late.

 

                                   **************************************

 

He squints into the sky to assess the time even if he doesn’t have to - he can feel it in his gut how far away dawn still is. Four hours. He has about four hours to find that freaking demon and kill it.

Oh, he would love to kill those sodding boys, too. He can’t of course. Not only because the chip wouldn’t let him; for a moment, he revels in the thought of fighting through the pain of overriding the bloody chip and kill them all the same.

But it’s not the chip making him cringe the very next moment.

He can’t. He can’t do it anymore, going around and killing people. Not even those who earned it. The soul wouldn’t let him.

Sodding soul.

It’s not like the chip, though, holding him back against his wishes. Instead it gives him the painful sense of ‘wrong thing to do’ in a way that he never felt before, like a twinge deep down in this place where his love for the Slayer hurts, too.

It leaves him helpless.

Bugger. He got his soul for finally _not_ feeling bloody helpless anymore.

But what the bleeding hell could they even do with those wankers? No human law court would believe in attempted murder by summoning a demon and having it shove a Slayer and a vampire into another dimension. They would laugh their fucking asses off.

And those boys were already far too strong to be scared into leaving town. Not to mention the fact that he wasn’t so much of a scare to humans anyway.

But he doesn’t need to think about any of it if he bloody well doesn’t find the barest trace of them in the first place. He angrily kicks against the tire of an innocent car parked in front of the house Warren lives in. The quiet yet satisfying hiss of air escaping the tire makes him smirk, until it eventually registers what car he let his anger vent on.

The black van.

They saw this van after playing kitten poker, he and the Slayer. No wonder the boys haven’t been in the basement, which is obviously their commando central, while this is their outpost. And now that his attention is drawn to it, he can hear quiet whispers and quarreling from inside. He grins. Gotcha!

He strides over and with a creaking sound opens the back door of the van, every inch the menacing vampire he used to be. The second they see him, brightly lit from behind by the street lantern, they go mute in terror. Frozen amidst movement, and yes, they have been quarreling, as evident in Warren holding the little witch down, ready to punch him. They stare at him wide eyed.

“Hello boys,” he says, his voice chipper as if being the long and longingly expected guest.

Warren lets go of the witch and flops back on the chair behind him.

“What can we help you with, Spike? Got problems with that chip in your head again?”

The boy is courageous, he must give him that. Spike leans casually against the door frame, fishing for his fags and lighter, then flicking the tobacco to flaring life.

“Actually I’m looking for a fella’f yours. Yay high, skin crimson red like a massive sun burn? Looking all ‘grrr’?”

He looks at them calmly, surprised that he still savors the fright in their eyes at realizing they are busted. Sickened at the same time that, despite the soul, he can still feel that way.

But these aren’t just murderers. They are what made Buffy’s life even harder than it was without them; they were what almost took her away from him for good. So he lets it slide. Lets his eyes gleam for a second in relish, his lips curl to a malicious grin for a moment to let them know he isn’t up to something good with them.

The blond one is the first to talk, fear widening his eyes, the urge to back away from Spike clearly written in his face as is the desperation that he can’t because he’s caught in the stupid van. “How did you know…”

He’s cut off by Warren, whom Spike pegs for the driving force of the trio, and who now jumps in to prevent his fellow from betraying too much.

“You’re kidding, right? No one is as big as that.”

Spike smiles; he’s playing innocent? Well, two can play that game, mate, he thinks and pushes himself away from the van’s doorframe, turning to its inside, aimlessly picking up some item of the equipment he has no idea what it’s used for.

“Summoning a Mala’hla demon, eh?” he nonchalantly addresses the blonde again, rightly assuming that he might be the weakest link. “Not an easy task, or so I’ve heard. A right Yoda you are.” And he clicks his tongue in approval.

The pillock’s face lights up like a bulb with pride, answering before Warren can stop him. “Yeah, it took a lot out of me, what with the being that big and all…” Again he’s cut off, this time by a hit against his head, but the damage is done, and Warren knows it. But he’s not yet ready to give up.

“All right, we summoned the red Hulk. Needed him to do some groundwork for us. What’s that to you anyway? Not really any of your business.”

It’s a long while that Spike wished his bloody chip to hell, and for weeks he couldn’t imagine that he’d have the urge for wreaking havoc ever again. But right now he fiercely wishes to be able to smash the smug boy’s head in and turn it to mush.

As it is, he can only keep up the pretense of being a threat, and he has the small satisfaction that he’s still got it.

His voice menacingly low, he grabs and holds Warren by his lapels, nose to nose, ignoring the warning sting the chip sends him. “Throwing a human in a deadly dimension is murder, and seeing that you are responsible for the red chunk of flesh, it’ll be you who’ll be held accountable.” He sees the fear flickering in the eyes right in front of him and lets go of the paling lad, not without making a show of casually dusting off and righting the boy’s lapels. “Since the Slayer has been saved, I may convince her not to bring you to justice. But the demon is in for punishment; of the kind you end up dead with. So,” he tosses the other two a sharp look, “if you don’t want to be on the receiving end of her pointy weapons, I suggest you tell me where to find the sunbather.”

It’s then that Jonathan finds his voice again, if trembling. “Uh, you mean the one right behind you?”

Spike whirls around and half to the side, his coat flapping behind, but he can’t dodge the hit completely. The red fist only punches his shoulder, though, and not the head it was aimed at, and Spike bites back the pain. And pain it is, because boy, that demon is strong. It turns out to be every bit as strong as he warned Dawn, but at least he can hit it.

But the demon is not only mightily strong, but also terribly unimpressed by Spike’s punches. After landing a few and achieving not one little flinch, Spike backs away far enough to reach for the axe tucked in the waistband of his jeans. He leaps up and kicks against the demon’s chest with both feet and in landing strikes with the axe, leaving a deep gash in its chest. And the demon finally reacts.

Not in the way Spike wished for, though. The hit with the axe hurt, he can see that; but more than that, it made the demon angry. Growling he lunges at the vampire, beats and shoves and smacks, but Spike recognizes a good fighter when he sees one, and one of those the Mala’hla is not. It’s blind fury that propels him forward, and fury doesn’t fight smart. Spike on the other hand is a fighter by heart, and he begins to enjoy it, feels his dominance despite the red’s physical superiority; he dances around it, whips on the balls of his feet, spins and kicks and ducks, his duster flaring and billowing around him. Again and again he hits with his favorite weapon, and slowly the demon gets tired. Green blood is gushing out of several wounds. Spike lands blow after blow against the demon’s head and the red giant visibly weakens, while its opponent grins with joy.

So engrossed is he in the dance that he almost misses what happens right beside them. But in the nick of time he’s turned in the right direction, and he sees the blonde twit fiddling with something, hears Warren urgently whispering to him to _use it, now_ ; and then he recognizes the thing as a glassy ball.

An Orb of G’hol. They want to create a portal.

They want to get rid of him, maybe even of both of them. This time they are there to close it after them. He’d have no chance of getting it open from inside.

He doesn’t think twice. He trades another, more determined blow with his axe; then he pounces on the boys and crashes his fist against the smaller one’s head, realizing too late that the Orb wandered into Warren’s hands.

The second his fist connects, pain flashes through his brain. He manages to land another blow aimed at the brown haired before he stumbles and slumps to his knees, clutching his temples, his face distorted in agony.

It wasn’t enough; enough to send him to his knees, but not to interrupt Warren. As he squints through the ache in his head he sees a grin appearing on the boy’s face that could almost be called happy, if not for the evilness glimmering beneath.

He understood. For the first time, the Scoobies notwithstanding, a human enemy of his knows about his weakness.

Their gazes meet, and then Warren straightens, grows right before his eyes, his face beaming with the new found knowledge.

“The chip,” he says, his voice high-pitched in excitement, triumphant. “That’s what it does. You can’t hit humans.” His eyes narrow. He steps closer, tentatively at first, then more decidedly, and kicks the still kneeling vampire against the chest. Spike’s arm shoots out, fighting off the offending leg, growling, “Watch it!” but he winces almost simultaneously, and the grin is back on Warrens face, wider even than before, because they both know the threat is empty.

He should run. He knows he really should, but the demon is still alive, and he can’t give up now.

He sees Warren lift his hand, the one holding the Orb, and haul it to the ground just a few yards away. Spike jumps to his feet, intending to look for the Mala’hla, but his eyes get caught for a second by the blinding, sizzling light that appears out of the blue. One second of distraction is enough for the demon to come to its senses, and with a roar it leaps on Spike. The vampire wards the attack off again, his axe landing with a cracking sound on the demon’s head, leaving it dazed on the floor; but now the humans know.

“Andrew, help me get him through the hole!” Warren shouts, and, “He can’t hit you!” he adds. He’s over Spike before he can turn and run, dealing him blow after blow, and Spike tries to defend himself; but even that shoots agonizing arrows through his head, and he goes down like a bloody school boy in first grade beaten up by some fourth grade bullies. Closer and closer the vampire is being driven to the portal, but he can feel that it’s not any longer the only goal the boy pursues. It’s the rush of the power he feels, the sudden knowledge of having the upper hand on the one he always dreaded. And Spike, tormented by both the boy and the chip, is too exhausted to run, too hurt to beat back.

“Andrew, you little coward,” Warren yells again. “Come and help me! I told you, he can’t hurt us!”

But Andrew hesitates. “You don’t know that,” he whines, clearly dreading Warren’s disdain at his cowardice, but still not yet willing to attack a vampire. “We saw him fight with the Slayer. He could hit her just fine then.”

“Maybe it’s because she’s the Slayer,” Warren offers, panting from the effort to thrust Spike closer to the portal. “Do you see any resistance? Trust me, he can’t hurt us!”

“No, but I can!” a new voice appears, followed by the thudding sound of fists being thrown against body parts, and Spike feels almost like crying in relief. Not because he is saved, because he can feel he isn’t - he’s already halfway through the portal, and now finally Andrew seems to come to Warren’s aid, and one determined shove will accomplish what Warren started.

But just hearing her voice, realizing she came for him, listening to her fighting for him is enough to nearly drive tears in his eyes.

When the expected shove comes he only wonders if there will be time enough to tell her how much he loves her; tell her at least once while having a soul.

“Spike!” So much fright rings in the one word she shouts that he’s not even sure he still needs to tell her.

And then she’s there, small hands clutching his larger ones and he feels her pulling him out.

But only for a second. Then he hears yelling, and suddenly a soft weight lands on him.

“No,” he whispers, and then he hears a voice - he knows that voice, even if he can’t quite remember whom it belongs to – shout _close it, close it, Jonathan, now!_ , and then he hears another voice hesitantly say _claude_ , and then he hears nothing while his world goes finally black.

Nothing but a steady heartbeat he knows he should be pissed off that it’s here with him.

But he’s not.

 

                                   **************************************

 

Dawn throws the telephone receiver in its cradle and lets out a frustrated cry.

“Argh! Where the hell are they all?”

She feels like having dialed numbers for half her life, but she couldn’t reach any of the Scoobies.

 _Rally the troops_ , Buffy said. Ha! How is she supposed to rally anyone, if they all are AWOL? A small voice in her head whispers that probably they are just asleep, and she should try to take a cab to Xander’s and wake them, but Dawn never had been inclined to listen to that stupid voice. Way too reasonable for her taste.

So, looks like she’s the only available part of the troops, even if technically, she’s not really part of it. The troops, that is. But hey, she tried, right?  And it would probably take too long to go to Xander’s anyway. Buffy told her on the phone where she’s headed, so Dawn knows where to go, and she left a message on his voicemail, just in case. And she is way capable of caring for herself; she’s not afraid of the things that go bump in the night, no Siree. And it’s not like she’s one of those clueless girls out alone in the middle of the night. She saw enough of her sister’s moves, tried them in front of the mirror often enough. She knows exactly how to dust a vamp, did it once already. And really, how hard can it be, to plunge a stake in its chest even without using its own weight, right?

She raises her chin in a determined gesture in anticipation of the inevitable lecture afterwards and grabs two stakes and a knife. She foregoes the bigger weapons, well knowing that they require a strength she’s decidedly lacking. In a last moment’s decision she also takes a bottle of holy water, because you never know, and leaves the house.

The thump of the closing door lets her pause for a second, the sight of the still very dark night suddenly sending a chill down her spine; too aware is she of the things out there to completely ignore the stupid voice of reason in her head, and she grips the stake a little tighter. Then she squares her shoulders and begins her lonely run through the dark.

It’s only a few blocks away from their home where this Warren guy lives, and she arrives there less than five minutes later. She hides behind a bush to assess the situation at first, listening to the voice in her head for once instead of jumping into the fray and maybe outing her disobedience without necessity. She sees the three boys she heard so much complaining about, and for a fleeting moment she wonders if they are really worth the trouble. They look so – unimpressive, she thinks, for lack of a better fitting word, but then her sister does, too. Until her fist hits you. And strength not always lies in muscles, Dawn acknowledges as her thoughts drift to Willow. But these guys seem to jump around uselessly like chickens when a fox enters the hen house.

And then she realizes what her mind shut out before, sees the full extent of what is going on right before her eyes. Sees the giant demon lying on the ground, motionless, sporting many greenly bleeding wounds and probably dead. Sees the blue light forming a perfect circle in the air. Sees Spike lying inside, battered almost as badly as he’d been after being tortured by Glory. Sees her sister kneeling in front of him, reaching for him, trying to pull him out. Sees the fear on her face. Sees one of the unimpressive boys racing to her, yelling something, shoving her in. Hears someone mumble something, knows it’s a spell of sorts.

Hears a whoosh.

Sees the portal closing.

With Buffy and Spike inside.

And all she can do is stare, stare and press her hands over her gaping mouth. Hoping to God that the scream that wants out so desperately resonates only in her head.

And she’s utterly glad that for once she listened to the small voice in her head that she usually disregards.

 

 


	16. Ghosts that we knew

** Chapter 16 **

**Ghosts that we knew**

_(Title from a song by Mumford and Sons)_

 

 

“Spike!”

She struggles to a kneeling position, careful not to hurt him, and then tries to shift his beaten body into a more comfortable position.

She’s not sure which is stronger, the fear because he’s still out cold, which seems unusually long and thus puts a lump in her throat she has to push past, or the annoyance that it has to be here of all places where she eventually runs into him. Or more precisely, got shoved onto him.

Nowhere to run, nothing to hide behind.

Stupid vampire; had to pick a fight with humans. Force her to fear for him, again.

“Spike!”

Nothing.

She sighs. Her eyes scan his body for injuries, but there are none too bad. She lifts his shirt to look closely at his chest, the terrible wounds he did to himself still an image burning in her mind, but they look much better than last she saw them. Of course, it’s been nearly a week, and with drinking blood again, vampire healing kicked in rapidly. He’s still sore, but not worse than before being beaten up by Warren, that skunk.

His face is a different matter, though. That’s where Warren mostly put his imprints on, with fists and knees and feet. She saw parts of his violent outburst, still sees it in her mind. Until suddenly the picture shifts and the punching person becomes someone else.

Not the one taking the beating, though.

She feels sick.

She pushes it aside determinedly. Not here, not now.

Her hand itches to move toward his bloodied cheek, to find a small place where it won’t hurt to touch him, but she holds it back.

She lifts her head and takes in their surroundings instead. Damn, the same portal as before, it seems. Even the freaking veil is still there, enticing her with golden promises.

Something feels different from the first time around, though. Oh, she still hears the siren’s song. Except that it’s not all that alluring any more. It feels like staring at a gigantic bowl full of Chunky Monkey right after having stuffed oneself with Thanksgiving dinner. You know you _want_ to eat it, but right now even the thought of digging in makes you want to barf.

It feels kinda weird, sitting here again, without having to fight against the pull, and she wonders what changed. She lets her eyes drift around, looking for a clue, but there’s none. She’s pretty sure that it’s the same portal as before. So why doesn’t it feel the same?

Her gaze falls on the vampire lying in front of her, and she feels a shiver running down her spine, because suddenly she knows of something that changed.

Her hand comes up, and this time she doesn’t stop it. She lays it tenderly on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Not willing to wait any longer.

“Spike.” It’s a strange voice coming out of her mouth - tenderness, fear, impatience, awe, the hint of a threat, all mingled into it. It’s because she doesn’t know how to feel; she just knows she really, really wants him to be awake now.

When he stirs, she gasps slightly and snatches her hand back as if touching fire, the one that actually burns you, then her eyelids fall shut for a second and she breathes out slowly, deeply.

She doesn’t know why she feels guilty all of a sudden - because she touched him, or because she stopped. But there’s no time to dwell on it, because his eyes pop open and he instantly turns his head toward her, sitting up the next moment like shot from a catapult.

“What the bleeding hell are _you_ doing here?”

Her mouth is already open, prepared to shoot back, but then she sees his eyes on her, the anguish in them speaking of a fear too similar to what she felt not too long ago, and her breath catches for a second. She refrains from saying what she had in mind. Instead she inhales deeply and then answers honestly.

“I got shoved in, just like you.” _When I wanted to pull you out_ , she thinks, but doesn’t say that either. He has enough to feel guilty about; why add to the list? He’ll remember soon enough anyway.

He groans - in annoyance or in pain, she’s not sure - and lets himself fall back, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Bloody brilliant,” he mutters, and now she can hear that, even if there’s pain, too, the annoyance definitely outweighs it. Something rises within her, the old pattern too strong, and she withdraws from him; not much, but clearly visible. Making her point.

“What?” she snaps at him; there are many things on the tip of her tongue, accusations of how it’s his fault they’re in this mess because he _had_ to go without backup, a fist in his face for good measure; but she holds back. Nothing really fits anymore, and deep down she realizes it’s not the old anger wanting an outlet. It’s something different. She doesn’t want to think it’s hurt. She bites her tongue anyway, suddenly glad about it when he reopens his eyes and what she sees there is so much worse than annoyance.

“What?” she asks again, softer now, almost placable.

“You’re aware that there’s just one way to get you out of here?” He looks around, a new kind of alarm obviously kicking in. “If someone kindly opens the door for us, that is,” he murmurs.

“Oh.” She sits and stares at him, just stares. _I had to link them, to save_ … She wasn’t aware. Not the least bit. She hadn’t wasted a thought on how to get out yet, but now that he mentions it, it begins to sink in - the only way to get her out is to link their souls again. _If_ anyone opens the door for them.

Those pictures are there again, a flood of them really, dancing before her mind’s eye, mocking, taunting. All those nausea inducing images, worse than any horror movie, because they are real. Much worse, because they are everything always defining Spike for her.

The very worst, because she can’t for the life of her reconcile them with the man lying in front of her and not stagger away in horror and disgust, and yet she remains kneeling beside him.

And then there’s nothing but anger, a white, hot rage racing through her like a tsunami, because it’s still all too much. The next thing she knows she’s on her feet, and he is, too, because he knows her that well. Their faces are only inches apart, until the palm of her hand connects with his cheek with a loud slap.

“You _asshole_! I’m _not_ going to be the screen for Spike’s Cruelest Hits again!” She has no control whatsoever over what she yells at him or what her body does, doesn’t care that it’s not really his fault they’re in this mess or about the injuries he took from the last beating that made her sick not five minutes ago. All the pent up frustration and insecurity, the helplessness of the last ten days and what feels like all the emotions she couldn’t feel for months are breaking through and rain down on him. “Keep your fucking shit to yourself! I don’t want to have anything to do with your atrocious past! I don’t care if you did it for me! I didn’t ask for this, and I sure as fucking hell won’t take any more of those horrifying pictures into my mind!” Fist after fist flies against him, his chest, his shoulder, and he lets her.

Until he doesn’t. Amidst her outbreak he catches her wrists with iron fists, holding them viselike between the both of them, and stares at her. The coldness radiating from him stops her more than his hands do. It’s a long time since he gave her a look that cold, if ever, and his voice matches his eyes exactly.

“You don’t really think that I asked for this, do you?” She’s paralyzed in his grip, and for a few seconds neither of them moves; they stand like one ice sculpture. “Trust me, Buffy, there’s _nothing_ in this world I wanted less than you reliving my past,” he says. Then he releases her, letting go of her wrists reluctantly, almost tenderly, and steps back.

Her fury evaporates completely the moment she realizes he’s terrified. Of _course_ he doesn’t want this any more than she does; probably less. She thinks of the long hours in his crypt, of how much he suffered, that he wanted to give up because of what he did. Thinks of his despair when he realized what the side effect of the linking had been, remembers him trying to tell her how sorry he was. Everything she pushed aside for the last week because she didn’t feel strong enough to face it rushes back into her mind, and this time, she doesn’t try to block it out, and she’s surprised that she _can_ take it. And then she suddenly flashes back to that dank alley, and she remembers that she saw this unspeakable fear in his eyes already once, when he was helpless against her determination to turn herself in; when he tried to force her not to. And she knows with sudden clarity this is what he’s terrified of - that he might have to force his past on her once again, and he doesn’t know if he still could.

“Liar,” she says, because he is. But she’s no longer at war; it’s her peace offering.

He blinks. “What?”

“You’re lying. There is something you want even less than me reliving your past. And you would fight me for it, even if you don’t want to.”

The icy wall in his eyes comes tumbling down and leaves them vulnerable. She sees the fear flashing in them once more, sees them pleading with her. “Do I have to?”

“Do I have a choice?” she counters. She knows it’s not fair to challenge him like that, but she has to know.

He contemplates her for a long while, trying to hide the emotions fighting for dominance in his face. Eventually he breathes in deeply. “I don’t know.”

She relaxes. “Thank you,” she says quietly, and he looks at her, just looks, tilting his head a little, and something like awe sneaks into his eyes. Then he catches himself and straightens a bit. “Since none of your pals knows where we are, we should probably get comfy, right? This may take a while,” he says and looks around as if searching for the best place to do so - a couple of chairs or a couch, maybe.

“Actually, Dawn may…” Buffy starts, but she doesn’t get further. A sound interrupts her, and as they turn to its source, they both similarly sigh with relief; the portal is back in place.

“Thank God, they found us,” Buffy breathes, for now pushing the implication of fusing their souls aside in favor of a moment of ease. Then her brows furrow. “Where are they?”

She approaches the portal, stepping as close as she can before she hits the barrier, and squints through. It’s dark outside, and there is no one to be seen. She turns to the vampire, and when their eyes meet she knows there’s something wrong. There has to be, if even Spike looks worried.

She turns back to the portal. “Should I yell for them?”

“They wouldn’t hear you, pet.”

*

He sees the confusion in her face and hurries to elaborate. “Time stops outside, remember?”

He lets his eyes wander to their home dimension, but finds nothing that could serve as a clue as to why there’s no trace of their saviors. “Maybe I should go outside, figure out if everything is okay first and then come back to get you.”

“What?” Buffy’s beside him in a heartbeat. “And leave me alone in here again? No way.”

He’s surprised. She sure went fast from ‘no way in hell I’m doing this’ to ‘no way in hell I’m not’. He watches her closely and sees an old fear rising, a fear he witnessed already once in this same portal. It’s stronger than her resentments of fusing their souls again, and he doesn’t know how to feel about that. It doesn’t matter how he feels, though, because she made her decision, and in the end, that’s all that counts.

“Buffy…”

“Do we need anything to do this?” She’s all business now. The Slayer. But he won’t let her get away with this so easily. He grabs her shoulders and turns her to look him in the eyes.

“Are you sure?”

He’s not so sure himself, truth be told. He really doesn’t want her to see in detail what he did for over a century, and most of all he doesn’t want her to feel the joy he felt back then. And – he doesn’t want to dive into her soul either. He remembers what it was like the first time, but it was dampened by his insanity. And he’s not eager to relive her love life with Soldier Boy or, much worse, with Angel, fully lucid again.

But of course, he has no choice; not really. Neither of them has. It’s her way out, the only one. He’d do anything, as long as it keeps her safe.

She looks back and hesitates, seriously thinking it through. Her eyes get kind of clouded for a moment, focused on her inner self. Then they clear up, she breathes in and straightens a little. She raises her chin and looks him straight in the eyes. Her hand comes up, cups his cheek for a second; then she takes both his hands in hers, and he almost loses it, because she never did this before.

“Do we need anything to do this?” she merely repeats, her voice soft, warm, yet determined. He has to swallow to free the way for his voice.

“Uh, yeah, there’s this crystal…” He reluctantly lets go of one hand to get the crystal out of his pocket. It’s still there, found its way from pants pocket to duster pocket instead of the dust bin, because when he thought about throwing it away it felt terribly like throwing away a piece of Buffy’s soul.

He holds it in his outstretched hand and watches her gingerly pick it up and warily examine it.

“Is there something inside…you know, of us?” she asks, and he’s grateful that he doesn’t have to feel like a git for that thought any longer. Maybe it’s a soul thing, thinking like that.

“I don’t know,” he responds honestly. “I don’t even know if there’s any magic left in it,” he adds apologetically.

That startles her. “What?”

“Didn’t know that we’d need it once more, did I?” he snaps defensively, snatching the crystal out of her hand and pulling both his hands away from her. “Of course, had I known you’d throw yourself into every portal on your way, I’d have taken precautions.”

Christ, he knows it’s not her fault. Why can’t that bloody thing inside him stop him from doing stupid things? Well, because apparently souls aren’t equipped for that task, because she’s no better.

“Well, if _someone_ hadn’t neglected to inform any of us about the stupidity they were up to, maybe I wouldn’t have had to try saving their sorry ass from vanishing into thin air!”

They are both yelling now, and he knows she’s as driven by the fear of what’s coming as he is, but that still doesn’t stop him.

“Yeah, and jumping into the portal, where you as human have no business to be, was the smartest way you could come up with, right? Not, let’s see, getting help to reopen that fucking thing to just let me walk out, because there is no bloody _barrier_ to keep me inside!”

“I didn’t jump in, for God’s sake! I got shoved in when I wanted to pull you out! Forgive me that I was so scared of losing you, again, that I didn’t stop to consider my options!”

A deafening silence fills the void around them. He doesn’t know why he’s even so shocked. Her refusal to let him die, shown to him with a full blown breakdown on his chest; the whole ordeal with protecting him, tending to his wounds, forcing him to drink blood; fighting for him in any way one could think of made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want to lose him. And yet, having those words thrown at him in the heat of the moment, especially after what happened one week ago, makes a world of a difference, and he can see that she’s as shocked as he is.

He sees her hand snapping to her mouth in a belated attempt to hold the words back, sees the horror of what she heard herself yell written all over her face. But oddly enough, after a long moment of fright filled silence, she’s the first to somewhat regain her composure. Her hand slowly slumps down, and he sees her face softening as slowly understanding dawns in her eyes. She takes a tiny step toward him, just enough to show him it’s not him she’s afraid of.

He’s not sure he’d have caught her next words if not for enhanced hearing, so low is her voice. But he hears them.

“I’m sorry.”

He swallows. Something’s off, but he can’t decide why he feels that way. Not just because the Slayer doesn’t apologize; not to him, anyway. She looks at him, just looks, and he knows she’s waiting for something.

“Me too…”

But she cuts him short, closing another bit of the remaining distance between them. “No, Spike. I’m sorry.”

He tilts his head and stares at her, and the feeling that there’s something going on that he still doesn’t understand gets stronger. He sees her fidgeting, her eyes boring into his as if she could connect their brains through their eyes, and suddenly he feels like it’s working because suddenly he gets it.

It’s not about their latest quarrel. It’s about so much more.

*

She sees that she confused him, can see that he’s trying to understand what she’s apologizing for, but is drawing a blank. _Shit. Shit. Shit. Say something_ , she thinks, and then, just when his eyes light up, in her haste to finally get this done, words tumble from her lips she hadn’t really intended to say, because they are all wrong.

“I…I’m sorry for thinking you’d leave me in the portal.”

Great. She managed to apologize for the only thing she’s not really guilty of, because she never quite believed he’d leave her there for good. She feels herself blush, averts her eyes, ashamed for still not finding the courage to apologize for being a monster. “I’m sorry,” she whispers again, leaves the sentence hanging in the air this time. _Coward_ , she thinks.

But then she feels his fingertips touch her bare arm, light as a feather, only for a fleeting moment. She looks up hesitantly, meets his eyes for one moment and wants to look away the next. She finds she can’t, though; his eyes glue hers to them, hold them in a vise, only softer.

It still hurts.

Tears spring to her eyes that she can’t avert any longer.

I’m _sorry I beat you to a pulp,_ they scream to him.

_I’m sorry I called you a thing._

_I’m sorry I didn’t believe in your love._

_I’m sorry I only saw you as a monster._

But she doesn’t say any of it. Still can’t, and it hurts probably more than saying it.

Yet, what hurts the most is what she sees then; the answer his soul has written into his eyes.

 _You were right_ , they say. And then they slide away from her, closing with something like defeat, but she knows it’s not her defeating him.

It’s him.

Without a conscious thought she catches his retreating hand in hers, pulls it back to her, squeezing it lightly before gently laying them both on her chest. _Maybe I was then, but not entirely_.

She sees the tension slowly leaking out of his body, and when his eyes reopen, they look different. Gratefulness is there, a hint of awe, a little wonder, but also a great deal of _Spike_. It’s as if she’s given him a part of himself back, a part he lost to his soul, but desperately needed.

_It seems we both need forgiveness after all._

She takes his other hand that is still holding the crystal. “What do we have to do with it?”

She hears his sharp intake of breath and looks up.

“Buffy…” The horror still lingers, but there’s something else now. Something almost new. Something she’s seen a ghost of in his crypt, the very first moments she came to him. Something her sheer presence provided to the lunatic that he was back then. Hope.

“I’ve seen it already. And this time I know…” _I know you regret_. It makes a world of a difference, and she feels, knowing this, she can bear it.

He watches her, scrutinizing, and then he slowly nods. “There’s this spell. It’s just one word, really, simple. And we both have to, uh, to touch the crystal.”

She instantly shifts so that they are holding hands, the crystal safely tucked between their palms.

“Ready, Randy?”

His brows shoot up, and the need to take her in his arms and kiss her is overwhelming all of a sudden. It’s said to sound like a joke, a funny reminder of strangeness experienced together. But he knows it’s so much more than that. It’s a gift for him, calling back to what it really was they experienced then, for a fleeting moment until the spell broke, and he finds that he has to swallow past the lump that built in his throat.

“Ready, Joan,” he whispers.

And then he says, “Ligate.”

 

                                   **********************************

 

It’s different this time. The warmth is there like then, floating from her hands and her eyes, from her soul. The rush of images is as overwhelming as it was weeks ago. And yet, it’s nothing like then.

Because this time, she’s there _with_ him. He can feel her hands, and it feels as if she’s guiding him, even though he is the one dragging her out of the portal. She’s not guiding him with her hands, but with her mind, allowing him access to her very soul. He’s sure though that it’s not her choice what he sees. Too bleak is much of it; he knows it’s not what she would choose to show him of her inner self. But – she’s not hiding from him anymore. Even if it was possible, he can feel that she doesn’t even try.

He sees a lot of images he remembers having seen last time, too: her dad, Angel, Finn. Even her mom, all those who left her, and he feels the loneliness of being the one left behind. He sees the Scoobies, feels the love she feels for them, feels the strength they are giving her, but also a very dark streak coming from them, winding around her, capturing her, gagging her. He can feel, really feel the solitude of being the Slayer pressing on her, but also the satisfaction it gives her being the one saving the world. He sees the light in her and the darkness.

And then, just like the first time, for a long time he only sees the darkness anymore. Feels the despair smothering everything else, smothering her. Until he realizes – there is light within the darkness. Just a tiny gold nugget of light suddenly appearing, but it’s getting brighter by the second and slowly increases in size.

And then he sees there is someone else within the light that is now looking like a ball of sunshine; and with sudden clarity he understands it’s this someone that brought her the light. He can feel his heart racing in his chest, although he _knows_ it’s impossible, because he knows who it is, even before he recognizes the bleach blond hair.

He feels her fear, of course, her reluctance, her indecision; but he also feels something else now, something he can only describe as peace and calmness. Maybe happiness.

None of those had been there the last time, and it’s what overwhelms him, because he understands that _he_ is the source of those new feelings.

And for the first time in over a century, he feels warm.

 

                                   *****************************************

 

It’s different this time. She’s very aware of their connected hands and eyes, feels something flowing from her to him, and from him to her, too. Something that connects them on a deep level, in a way she’s never before been connected to anybody, and yet, she knows this is not really new to them.

The flood of images sets in right away, but she’s oddly calm now, not afraid anymore. Because this time she’s not alone. He’s with her, she can feel that; holding her, sheltering her. Even if they both know he can’t protect her.

They are there again, those atrocities she tried to forget so desperately, but she doesn’t look away. She feels the glee again, and this time she knows - it’s _his_ glee. _His_ indescribable joy at blood gushing out of an artery wound like a geyser, painting the floor red, and also the faces around the open mouths that try to catch the fountain, laughing. _His_ delight in the screams of fear he elicits from a running girl. _His_ pleasure at making Drusilla happy with the gift of a child he brought her to devour.

The joy is not all she feels, though; the horrid images aren’t the only ones she sees. There’s also the torment of a love not reciprocated, a feeling of helplessness prominent for a while. Then the tune suddenly changes and turns into determination; images of a cave, fear and pain, so much pain, merged with the unbending will to survive, to achieve something at all costs. And she just knows - it’s the soul he’s fighting for. The very soul she’s looking into right now.

And then there’s grief and guilt, so much guilt that it hurts. So much of it that it’s getting harder to feel anything but. The remnants of joy swirl, mingle with anguish, dwindle away eventually, until nothing is left but agony. Black, black, everything.

Until there is a smidgen of something else, and she knows it’s hope. It lights the darkness a little, makes room for an old feeling, never forgotten, but locked away, as if there had been no permission for it, because it’s a feeling so purely good. But it’s strong, so strong in him that it can even take all the grief and guilt and agony and make it bearable. It fills her, like him, with warmth and peace, fills her until she doesn’t think she can take in any more, but she can; she’s not on the verge of bursting like she thought for a moment, because she feels her heart expanding to take it all in, and she knows it’s love. Grief and guilt, they are still there, not diminished even a little, but they don’t frighten her any longer. They are important to him, she feels that now. He doesn’t hide from them. He lets them into his heart instead, to the place where there was so much love that she didn’t think there was any more room, but there is.

And she knows _she_ is the one giving him this, even if she never intended to. Never even acknowledged it to be there.

But she feels it’s what she wants - giving him the strength to bear his past.

She feels her heart expanding even more, and this time it’s unadulterated happiness, and she doesn’t know if it belongs to her or him.

She thinks it belongs to both of them.

 

 


	17. Behind Blue Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took a while to update, I was away for a few days...  
> Thank you so much for the Kudos!

** Chapter 17 **

**Behind blue eyes**

_(Title from a song by The Who)_

 

 

 

He comes to with a stab of pain. It takes him a while to figure out where the pain comes from, until he understands - their connection is severed. They’ve been ripped out of each other’s souls.

Only then, when the realization settles in his heart, his eyes and brain catch up. Not only their souls are severed, their hands aren’t linked anymore either. In fact, Buffy is about ten feet away from him. When his eyes find her, for a split second his heart sings, but then it freezes in fright.

She’s caught in the tight grip of the Mala’hla; the soddin’ thing apparently wasn’t dead after all. Her arms are both twisted behind her back, the demon’s one gigantic hand holding her wrists like a clamp and constantly pulling them further up. The other red arm is wrapped around her, the hand clenching her neck so tightly that she can barely breathe, pressing her head against its chest in the process to keep it from butting against him. Her feet are dangling in the air, kicking wildly against its legs, but the Mala’hla doesn’t even seem to notice.

Spike tries to get to her, but can’t; he’s being held, too. When he sees by whom he feels an onslaught of panic surging through him, because that’s what seals his inability to come to her aid - the human boys, again.

He knows he didn’t recover enough from their last beating, and even if he did, it’s pointless. He’s so much stronger than they are, but there still isn’t a damn thing he can do against them. Even if, with a Herculean effort, he could break free and withstand the chip induced migraine, he would never be able to recover fast enough to break her free as well before they would be on him again.

He tries nevertheless, of course. Wriggling free from Andrew’s hands which are holding his arm on the one side is easy and doesn’t even set off the chip. His now free fist shoots against Warren, who holds him on the other side, and lands at his temple with a satisfying crunching sound, sending Warren straight to the floor. The chip fires mercilessly now and seething pain flashes through Spike’s head, but he still stumbles forward with a roar, attacking the Mala’hla instantly with a hard kick against its legs, trying to kick its feet out under them to get the demon staggering and letting go of Buffy; unfortunately it doesn’t work one bit. The kick lacks its usual strength, and the deomon stands unfazed, steadfast like a pillar. Instead Spike goes down when something hits him hard at the back of his head, and in turning he sees that it’s been the little one, Jonathan, with something that looks like a huge bone.

He leaps to his feet the next second and grabs the bone, wrestling it from Jonathan’s hands, ignoring the warning stings from his chip as well as he can. From the corner of his eye he sees Warren rushing toward him and, in one fluent move, throws the bone between his legs. Warren stumbles, but it’s too late. Something hits Spike again, and this time he knows it is not something that he can grab and throw back.

It’s magic.

Magic that traps him, holds him in place, unable to move his feet or hands even an inch. His eyes leap to Buffy like he wanted his feet to, latching onto her gaze in desperation, burning into it.

For a second he thinks their souls are connecting again, but then he realizes it’s just the connection they’ve always had. He sees her futile struggle against the stoically standing demon, sees anxiety rising in her eyes and just knows it’s on his behalf; knows it’s because he’s so bloody vulnerable against the humans and because she’s so bloody helpless in the demon’s irony grip He knows how much she hates being helpless and yet, it’s not helplessness letting her eyes stay rooted on his.

She _wants_ this, this bond between them.

He hears commotion behind him and knows she sees what’s happening there; sees the fear in her amplify and knows she’s scared for him like he is for her.

And all they have is their eyes connecting them.

And suddenly he knows - she _sees_ him.

This is the last conscious thought before his world goes black.

 

***

 

She sees him fighting to get to her, to save her, again. Sees him taking on the pain of his chip, because it seems to be their only chance, sees him attacking and losing and attacking again, and she hates this, being damned to do nothing.

She isn’t really doing nothing, though. She never stops kicking the Gandhi thing, wriggling in its grip to squirm free eventually but to no avail. The huge claws haven’t moved an inch, and the beast hasn’t so much as grunted at her attempt to hurt it.

At least he _can_ fight, she thinks. Until he can’t; she knows it the second the magic hits him, sees the tensing in his neck and knows he knows, too. His eyes instantly dart to hers, find them and lock, tying them together. An almost forgotten image flits through her mind all of a sudden. His eyes riveted to hers just like now, the same fear widening them. The fear for the woman he loves. Only it wasn’t her then. It was the dark haired vampire she held against her chest like the demon holds _her_ now, and for an insane second she wonders if he remembers just now, too. Then it’s gone, as suddenly as it assaulted her, and all she sees is _him_ , conveying every little thing he feels, feels for her, with his eyes. She doesn’t let them go, holds on to them through it all, even when she notices Warren struggle to his feet behind the vampire, grabbing a two-by-four that is lying on a heap in the driveway of his house and clocking Spike with it. Spike sags to the ground, out cold for the moment, their connection cut by his closing eyelids, and Buffy is stunned that it almost hurts her physically, almost feels like a knife twisting in her gut.

She holds her breath and waits for the scream inside her to burst out; the scream that sits under her skull, pushing against it and against her eyes, pressing liquid behind them, ready to spill.

She doesn’t scream. Instead her expression shifts, from fear-mingled anger to cold hate. She never once in her life hated someone, not really. Not the demons she has to fight, their existence forcing her to lead a life she never wanted. Not Angelus, when he killed the woman Giles loved only to hurt her. Not Spike, when his only goal in the world seemed to be to annoy her to death. Not even Glory, although she came pretty close. She might’ve been pissed as hell, but she never hated them. It was what demons, and, well, hell gods were there for. Not that she deemed them innocent, but it was kind of their purpose to do evil, after all.

These three idiots? Not so much. They _decided_ to become evil.

She focuses on Warren, rightly guessing him to be the head of the trio she once thought to be ridiculous. She won’t make that mistake again.

She silently watches them bustling around, Warren giving orders and Jonathan and Andrew obeying without protesting too much; but she thinks she detects a sliver of doubt in Jonathan’s eyes as he briefly stops to scrutinize their leader.

Warren still holds the two-by-four that rendered Spike unconscious, ready to strike again, but the vampire’s still lying passed out on the ground. At Warren’s command the other boys turn Spike a little to get access to his hands and bind them together, the whole time arguing about the right way to do it properly.

As soon as the vampire is tied up, Warren kicks him in the butt, unfazed by the sharp intake from the Slayer’s direction. Only the blond boy’s eyes flicker to her and he shrinks back a little at the sight of her.

Buffy decides it’s time to stall. Maybe she can catch the demon holding her by surprise, once she’s engaged in a conversation. She has no clue how to get free and save them both, but at least the thing behind her back makes no attempt to kill her. Yet.

“So, Warren,” she says nonchalantly, though her voice is barely concealing the coldness she feels inside.

Three heads turn toward her with three different expressions. Warren’s sporting a gleeful arrogance, Andrew jumps from giddy to awe to concerned and back. Jonathan only reluctantly meets her eyes, and when he does, he almost seems ashamed.

“I guess you’re very proud of yourself and your little gang. You caught us.”

“Actually,” Warren replies, stepping closer, gesturing to his friends to bind her, too, “I’m a little disappointed. I mean, can it really be that easy to catch the ‘great Slayer’,” he waves his hand ominously in front of his face, “and her pet vampire?”

“Yeah, well, it won’t be for long,” Buffy promises confidently, even though right at that moment both boys are fiddling with binding her to a lamp post. At least the Mahatma thing leaves her be for now. “Catching us by surprise is one thing. Keeping us though, that’s another story. Plus, you know that human law applies on holding someone hostage, right?”

She addresses Warren, but from the corner of her eyes she watches Jonathan squirm at her words. He’s not stupid, she knows that. It’s about time to wake him up.

“Good thing that we never meant to keep you, right?”

Buffy scoffs at him. “You won’t get away with murder. There are people who know about your involvement with us. They will –“

“Oh,” he interrupts, and his eyes scurry to the bushes behind her. “You mean your own little gang? Yeah, they won’t be a problem either.”

Her breath catches at the implication of his words. She turns her head and watches closely, and her blood runs cold when she glimpses a foot with a red sneaker.

Dawn.

Buffy snarls and tries once more to break free, but it’s futile. She stills, fuming. “What have you done to her?”

Warren can’t hide the grin any longer. “Oh, not much. She got very compliant when our big friend here held the boy and threatened him. Spared us the time to find another orb of G’hol.”

“Xander…” She strains her eyes and sees the silhouette of someone lying a few steps away from her sister. Then she turns back to Warren.

“ _You_ would’ve opened the gate for us anyway? Why?” She furrows her brows. “Why not just leave us there?”

His eyes sparkle with anger for a second. “How could we have left you in there when you already escaped once? It shouldn’t even be possible, but alas, here you are again. Your friends knew where you were, obviously, and your vampire,” he nods toward Spike, “seems to have found a way to save you. Pity that he will be the one to rid the world of you now.” A slow grin settles on his face once more when he sees her eyes grow wide.

“What do you mean?” She tries hard to make her voice sound as confident as before, but she can’t prevent the small waver slipping in.

To her surprise, and visibly also to Warren’s, Jonathan steps beside him and grabs his arm. “Yeah, Warren, what does that mean? Rid the world of her? You want to _kill_ her?”

“Oh, no. Don’t worry, Johnathan. We can’t do that. Human law applies for murder, right?”

She sees relief flooding the small boy’s face as he nods. But she knows better. Warren’s not done yet.

“That’s why we’ll let _him_ do it for us.”

There’s the glee again, gleaming in his eyes when he walks over to Spike.

“What?”

“What?”

The double shout echoes through the night. Jonathan rushes after Warren, grabs his arm again and tries to spin him around. “You can’t _do_ that! You can’t actually _kill_ someone!”

Every hint of joy is gone from Warren’s face when he hisses at his renegade accomplice. “We already discussed that, Jonathan, when we…”

He trails off when he becomes aware of laughter.

It’s Buffy, laughing like she didn’t laugh for ages. Not since her resurrection for sure, probably much longer. Tears of laughter are running down her face and she gasps for air.

Warren draws himself up in front of her. “What’s there to laugh at?”

Buffy tries to speak, but another fit of laughter rolls through her. “That…that’s your plan?” A giggle. “You want,” another giggle, “you want _Spike_ to kill me?”

“Is there a problem?”

He’s eerily calm in the face of her amusement.

“No problem at all,” she still grins. “Except that he won’t do it.”

“Hm. We’ll see.” He seems unimpressed, and that finally stops her. There’s something she must have missed, she’s suddenly sure of it.

She watches him with a feeling of unease, sees him walking toward Spike again and kicking him roughly in the side. “Hey!”

Nothing. Spike remains dead to the world.

“HEY!” Another kick to the ribs, much harder; Buffy thinks she hears a bone cracking.

And then there’s a reaction. Spike moans and stirs.

 

***

 

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey,” he hears someone purring. Spike’s eyes snap open, and it takes just a moment to remember. He catches Buffy’s glance, glad to see she’s still standing, if still trapped.

“You alright, Slayer?”

She nods, but seems wary. Apprehensive, even. And the next second he gets an idea why that is.

“Oh, yes, she is alright. Ripe for the taking, I’d say.”

Spike growls low in his chest and slowly turns toward the owner of the voice, just in time to see Warren wave his hand dismissively toward him.

“Relax and take your mind out of the gutter,” he all but giggles, “that’s not what I meant. Maybe I should clarify - Ripe for the killing.”

Spike is alarmed by the giddiness coming off of the boy in waves, especially since both he and Buffy still are his captives, worse than before, as he now realizes when he tries to brace on his hands and finds them tied together.

He braces on his elbows instead and briefly thinks about ignoring the idiot. Maybe this would be smart, if even the Slayer holds back with snippy comments, but then again - he’s not willing to give their captors the satisfaction of being intimidated. Plus, he couldn’t have kept his mouth shut anyway.

Despite his hands bound, he slowly rises to his feet, raises his chin and stares into Warren’s eyes, his self-confident posture alone challenge enough. “I’d like to see you try.”

He sees the two boys noticeably back away; Warren just snickers, though. “Yeah, I bet.” And at Spikes raised eyebrow clarifies, “That’s why it’ll not be me doing the honor.”

Spike narrows his eyes; he has the uncanny feeling that he missed out on something important. Something tells him that it’s not the Mala’hla demon Warren intends to do the killing. Another one, maybe, hidden somewhere in the shadows behind the bushes? He somehow doubts it.

And then he gets it. His eyes widen in disbelief, but a brief glance at the Slayer confirms his suspicion.

He turns back to Warren and snorts derisively. “You’re off your rocker if you think you can make me, you prat!”

The next words die in his throat though as he notices the cheerful gleam in Warren’s eyes. Trepidation begins to creep through his veins; the boy clearly knows something he doesn’t, and Spike has grudgingly to acknowledge that the three of them are quite capable in what they have specialized in.

“You think?” Warren grins and turns to Jonathan. “Jonathan, be a dear and do what you have to, swing your bone or whatever,” Andrew bursts into laughter at that, “to keep him here, will you?”

Spike sees Jonathan scowling, but reluctantly he does as he is ordered. Warren nods, obviously pleased to see that he still has power over the smaller boy. As soon as Jonathan is done and Spike is once more hit with the magic that roots him to the spot, Warren steps closer and cuts the bonds tying his hands together. Then he hastily backs away, all too well remembering the last time the vampire didn’t care about the headache it earned him beating the boys.

“So, here’s the deal. We need to get rid of the Slayer, but of course, we’re no murderers.” He chuckles before going on. “You, however, you’re a vampire; we don’t care about if you live or not. So we thought,” Spike sees Jonathan open his mouth on the verge of speaking up, but Warren’s faster. “ _We_ thought,” he repeats, glaring at his accomplice, “we’ll let you go.” He pauses for emphasis. “ _After_ you killed the Slayer, of course. What do you say?”

Spike searches for Buffy’s eyes and is stunned by the fear he detects there. Does she really think he’d do that? He tilts his head a fraction, his eyes widening, trying to assure her with everything he can lay in his expression. _Of course I won’t, luv._

“No.” He says, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Okay,” a much too cheery voice whispers closely behind him, and the next thing he’s aware of is a flash of pain exploding in his thigh. He lets out a grunt and looks down; the tip of an arrow is protruding from it, decorated with his blood. When he looks up again he meets Buffy’s eyes, sees the pain in them, and he knows that was what she was afraid of.

“Ooh, what is that at your leg? Let’s see…” Warren grabs the arrow tip and begins to pull; slowly, jerkily. Spike grits his teeth, but can’t prevent another grunt from escaping. When the arrow is out, after a time that seems like an eternity, he gasps for air.

Then he sees a knife in Warren’s hand, glistening competitive with his eyes; but not for long, because the next second the blade is already sinking into his chest, slowly, mercilessly, down to the handle.

“Having second thoughts yet?”

This time, a high pitched laughter begins to bubble up in Spike, which earns him a disapproving look from his tormentor.

“You’re even barmier than I thought, you twit. You think you can torture _me_ into submission? Yeah, well, think again, mate. Others have tried that, and let me tell you, what they did was masterful compared to your work, you bloody amateur.”

Warren seems irritated for all of a second. Then he pulls the knife out, not without twisting it in the wound, of course.

“Is that so?” He looks thoughtful for a moment, tilts his head aside and lets his eyes wander to Buffy. “Well, maybe the right motivation will do the trick.”

Shit. That wasn’t what he intended to accomplish. Spike clenches his fists, but he’s powerless. With a sinking feeling he watches as Warren walks over to the Slayer and raises his knife.

He wants to ball his hands to fists, but they are paralyzed; wants to scream, _no_ , but he doesn’t; there’s no use. Instead his eyes get cold, fill with hatred that he hasn’t felt for someone else but himself; not for a long time, and never for a human.

The boy cuts into Buffy cheek; a shallow cut, just enough to draw blood.

She remains silent, undaunted by what Warren does. Her eyes are riveted to Spike. _It’s okay_ , they tell him _, I’ve had it worse_.

Warren comes back and holds the blade under Spike’s nose.

“Hmmm? Doesn’t that smell good? Come on, be a good little vampire and get her. Isn’t that like third base for vampires, to kill a slayer?” he taunts. He’s not aware, of course, that Spike could smell the blood just fine from the distance. But it’s been a long time since this slayer’s blood fueled his wish to kill her.

For a moment, Warren seems to be a little disappointed by the lack of reaction. Then he shrugs.

“No temptation to you? Oh well. We have another ace up our sleeves.” He snips his fingers in the direction of his companions. “Jonathan. Do the spell.”

Another spell. Spike feels his stomach lurching. He doesn’t scare easy, but magic is the thing that always gets to him. He knows there are spells that can force him to do what he doesn’t want to; Willows will-be-done disaster isn’t forgotten.

Suspiciously he eyes the small boy, watches him murmuring something he doesn’t catch. And then he feels it.

The feeling is not bad. Just terribly familiar. He’s vamping out, and he has no control over it whatsoever. He looks at Buffy, fear-stricken.

“Spike,” she says, her voice reassuring, convinced of the truth she’s telling. “That doesn’t change a thing. You’ve been with me and fought with me many times in game face. You won’t do me any harm. I know that.”

He nods, but then he feels something else. Something shifts, deep in his chest, at the place where the demon in Africa touched him when he gave the vampire his soul back. Panic rises in him that he might lose it, that they’d steal his soul from him. His legs give way despite the magic paralysis, and he falls to his knees, his eyes glued to hers, as if she were his lifeline; and she is, deep down he knows that.

“Buffy,” he croaks, “they’re taking it away.”

He sees her tensing, sees horror widen her eyes; he knows what he’s talking about. But she recovers fast.

“No,” She shakes her head. “No, it’s still there. Spike, trust me. It’s still there,” she says, her voice urging him to believe her. “I can see it.”

He swallows and nods, but doesn’t let go from her eyes. And then he feels a coldness soaking his body, prickling, stinging; it seeps right to the center of his body, of his being, and he knows she must be right. They don’t steal it from him. They lock it in within him with their magic. He feels it slipping from his grasp, even though he knows it’s still there. He just can’t reach it. He feels a growl rising in his throat, and that, too, is out of his control.

“Spike! You didn’t want to kill me long before the soul. Remember that. I know you won’t hurt me.” Her voice is calm, soothing, and he knows she’s right.

That’s when he realizes, it’s much worse. Because he knows she’s right, but he doesn’t quite remember why. Why was that again that he never killed her, even when he could finally hurt her?

And then he doesn’t care about it any longer. All he smells is her blood, slayer blood, and he sees her, bound, helpless. He briefly wonders about the lack of fear in the scent of her blood, but that’s just a fleeting thought because all he cares for is the overwhelming need to kill her, drink her dry.

 

***

 

She sees the change. Sees the panic, the horror he feels at the thought that he might end up killing her, slowly fade away. That’s when she knows they must have done something else. It can’t be just the soul; somehow they must have found a way to reign the side of him in that sets him apart from other vampires. His humanity.

“What have you done to him?” she whispers.

“We freed him,” Warren calmly states. “No pesky conscience and unwanted feelings and stuff. For now he’s the vampire he should’ve always been.” He grins maliciously, and she wonders if he thought about the fact that vampires tend to kill not only slayers, but also stupid boys; until she remembers that they know now that Spike can’t.

“Oh, and you don’t have to worry about us; he can’t hurt us, you know?” he confirms her thoughts. When he hears a moan coming from where Xander and Dawn are tied up, he adds, “Oh, come on. Look at the bright side! He can’t hurt your friends either. Everything’s fine, right?”

She turns away from him, disgusted to the bone, and turns her attention to Spike.

Her insides tie into knots at the sight of him. He still kneels at the same place, the spell to keep him there not yet broken; his eyes are gleaming yellow and he is in game face. She has seen him countless times in game face, but this time, something is different. And then she gets it.

He is nothing more than a wild animal. He doesn’t want to kill her for any other reason than to satisfy the urge to hunt and kill. She has never seen him like that, because he never was.

For the first time she feels real fear. For a moment she’s sure he’ll kill her; and when they lift the spell then and he understands what he has done, he won’t be able to live with it. Tears prickle in her eyes. She’s not scared of dying; she knows what’s awaiting her, and not too long ago she wanted it more than anything. But she doesn’t want to leave Dawn again. What hurts most of all, though, is the thought of him, having to live through the pain of having killed her.

She doesn’t want that for him

“Spike,” she says, and she isn’t even aware she does until she hears it, her voice so tender again, like in his crypt a week ago.

He looks up at that, looks at her, and for a second she thinks that his eyes are blue. But the next moment they are back to yellow, his face the same feral mask as before. She sees him standing, his muscles straining to move, hears a growl from deep within him.

She hears Jonathan murmuring again, and then Spike pounces.

 


	18. Awake my Soul

** Chapter 18 **

**Awake my soul**

_(Title from a song by Mumford and Sons)_

 

 

He lands right in front of her, so close that she could touch him, _feel_ him, if it wasn’t for her bound hands. He stares at her hungrily; hungry for her blood, but not just that. She can see that he also hungers for the kill.

The growl turns into a vicious snarl, the most animalistic sound she had ever heard from him. It should scare her to death.

It doesn’t. She’s eerily calm.

“Spike,” she says. “Look at me.”

Which seems redundant, really, because he does. He devours her with his eyes. They narrow dangerously, then glide along her face, down to her neck; his lips are drawn back, his fangs on full display. Eyes glued to her pulse point, he suddenly darts forward, his hands grab her by her shoulders and pull him closer to her, but it’s not her neck he’s going for. It’s the shallow cut on her cheek. His tongue laps up the blood that trickled down a few inches and hasn’t dried yet, and for a moment, the growl fades into a contented purr. And then it grows louder, greedier, his head moves eventually down and she feels his teeth on her neck, ready to sink in.

“Spike.” It’s not much more than a reflex that she says his name again, and yet she never doubts that he listens, the knowledge that he always does too deeply rooted in her subconscious. She doesn’t speak loudly or sharply, it’s just her saying his name.

He stills. The growling doesn’t.

“Spike, look at me,” she repeats. She feels him tensing against her and his head comes up, and for the first time she detects something like confusion in his demonic face. But after a brief glance into her face, his eyes wander back to her neck.

“No, not there. Look up,” she says. “Look at _me_.”

His eyes snap back to hers; the growl stops.

“Now listen.” She inhales deeply, holding his eyes with hers in a tight grip. “I know you. You won’t hurt me.”

“What?” Distantly she hears Warren shout at them. “ _Yes_ you will! _Of course_ you will. Hurt her! That’s all you want to _do_!”

She feels Spike straining to look at the boy, but she doesn’t let him. She holds his eyes with everything she has.

“I know you. I’ve seen you, for longer than I wanted to admit. And I _know_ you won’t hurt me. Because you’re in there, and you’re _strong_.”

“Kill her already!” Warren howls, put out that it takes that long for the vampire to attack.

She doesn’t listen, and she feels that Spike doesn’t either. He’s riveted to her. She doesn’t know where the words she utters keep coming from, but the second they fall from her lips she knows they are true, and she knows it’s what keeps him with her.

“You’re strong,” she repeats, “Stronger than the demon. You’ve always been. It’s your humanity. It’s not the soul. You don’t need the soul for not wanting to kill me. All you need is _you_ , and you’re still there. _No_ body can take that away from you. I trust you, Spike.”

The game face melts away, and he still stares at her, with his eyes completely blue. His lips move, but no sound comes out. She still knows what he says.

“I’m here,” she says. “With you.”

And then the vampiric face is back again, and once more he growls.

“That’s right. Kill her!” Warren yells.

And Spike turns to the left, to the side where the boy stands cheering him on, and lunges. He goes for his neck in a heartbeat, throws the boy down to the ground and practically sits on him while his fangs sink in deeply. Instead of drinking from him though, he rips a large piece of Warren’s neck away, diving in again and again. She sees him jerk away repeatedly, zapped back from the chip, the constant growling and snarling turning into agonized howls, and she sees him shaking in pain; but after a few instances he always ignores it and continues to rip Warren’s neck apart. Blood splashes around Spike, but he’s not interested in it. He only seems to care about the screams he elicits, the fear he can smell and probably taste, too, and when the screams are beginning to quiet down, when the arms thrashing around are getting weaker, only then does he slow down.

That’s when she hears music. A quick glance tells her it’s panpipes blown by Andrew, and she’s shocked to realize that he seems to be using it to control the demon she completely forgot about, but which is still standing just a few steps away from her and now begins to move.

Andrew pauses with the flute, and now she can see how shocked he is too. Tears are streaming down his face at the view of his dying friend, but a desperate fury has mingled into his fear.

“Go! Stop him! Kill the vampire! Kill him,” he yells, and then he blows the flute again. The demon does as he’s ordered; he stomps over to Spike and with just one hand grabs him at his duster and lifts him up without any visible effort.

“No!” She shouts from the top of her lungs, but the demon doesn’t react. He hurls Spike away from Warren’s writhing body and follows him with a few long strides. Buffy tries to yank her hands free with all her power, but to no avail; even with all their arguing these boys still managed to tie her to the post in a rather unbreakable fashion.

But Spike’s back on his feet again, if still shakily. When the demon attacks, it’s received with a blow in its face, and a roundhouse kick against its head follows. It strikes back, and Spike finds himself, again, flying through the air, landing some feet away. He struggles to his feet and charges the next second, and the demon retaliates. The demon attacks and Spike fends it off as well as he can. There are flying kicks and blows and headbutts, but whatever Spike tries, the demon stands steadfast.

Buffy can see that Spike’s losing power; he’s not back to his full strength yet, additionally the merciless chip weakened him considerably, and the demon is exceptionally strong. The longer she watches, the more her stomach turns into stone and her hands clench into fists, because Spike is fighting for his life before her eyes, and she can’t do a thing.

When she feels someone at her back, at first she thinks she’s imagining things, wishing so strongly to be free to join in the fight. Then she realizes it’s real - there’s someone fumbling at her ankles.

“Jonathan?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I think it’s best when you’re free again. You know.”

He briefly looks up, but averts his eyes instantly when hers meet them. He cuts the bonds piece by piece until she’s free again. She straightens and jumps into the fray, and not a minute too early. She can see that Spike is at the end of his tether. His face is bleeding from multiple cuts, some of them new, some of them reopened cuts from the beating he took from Warren. He also seems kind of dizzy; he shakes his head to clear it, only to start the next attack.

But this time, Buffy’s there. She rushes the demon from behind, jumps high in the air and lands multiple fast, good kicks against his head. When she lands back on the ground, Spike takes over and punches the demon in the guts. He buys Buffy time to grab the two-by-four Warren used earlier and, with all her force, drive it through the demon’s chest.

It topples like a felled tree.

She sees Spike slumping to his knees, as if the only thing holding him up was the will to survive. Now he has a hard time to even stay upright. He’s still in his vampire disguise, never lost it even for a second; all she sees, though, is that he’s still _there_. She sees him tremble, and she’s sure it’s not just exhaustion; it’s the man fighting the demon within. The next moment, she’s also on her knees, though she can’t remember when she fell down, and approaches him with her hands outstretched.

He snarls at her ferociously, snapping his fangs in her direction, but she just ignores it. She’s not afraid. Not of him. She’s never been.

She catches his hand that tries to grab her and holds it still. She reaches for his other hand, takes it in hers, and for a moment he doesn’t resist.

“Spike. I’m here with you. Come back.”

He answers her with a growl, his head snapping toward her, and he’s again on the edge of attacking her. Her hands are suddenly empty, because he yanked himself free from her grip, and just like earlier he grabs her shoulders, hauling her toward him.

But before he can lower his head toward her neck, her hands come up and cup his cheeks, and at her touch he freezes. She holds his face between her palms, dipping her head to search for his eyes until the golden yellow meets bright green.

“Spike.” Again just his name, and again with that tenderness she’s slowly getting used to hearing in her own voice.

A shudder runs through him, and then she sees what she never thought possible - from one demon eye, like from a deep cavern, leaks a tear.

That’s when several things happen simultaneously. She hears Warren mumbling something, which she can’t quite catch but sounds like ‘kill them’ and ‘bastard’. Andrew, who had been captivated by the drama in front of him, lets out a squeal and darts to his friend whom he probably presumed to be dead. The Mala’hla demon, also not dead yet, recovers enough to pick itself up. Spike’s head whips around, and before Buffy can comprehend a thing, he jumps to his feet and takes in a fighting stance, instinctively positioning himself between Buffy and the staggering demon. But instead of following Warren’s orders, the demon turns and staggers to where one boy lies and the other hovers over him. It grunts, shoves Andrew out of the way, falls to his knees and grabs Warren’s head between its large hands. And then it twists.

The sickening sound of a breaking neck echoes through the darkness, and then the demon falls over the corpse of the boy and lies still.

And into the complete silence that follows, Buffy hears a new voice.

“Oh my God!”

She turns her head and sees Xander and Dawn, wide awake, both still tied up but sitting, staring at the scenery, her sister shell-shocked.

She hears a whimper beside her. She looks at Spike and sees the same shock she just saw on her sister’s face, his amber eyes flitting from the demon to Xander and Dawn to her. For a second, their eyes meet.

This time, it’s his turn to run.

 

***

 

Dawn’s emotions are all over the place afterward. She flings her arms around Buffy’s neck, glad to have her back. She’s concerned about Spike, shocked about Warren’s death, yet super pissed about his evilness at the same time. She’s never seen a human behaving so ruthlessly and viciously before, and Buffy doesn’t think her sister is the least bit sorry about him being dead in the end. She makes a mental note about talking to Dawn later regarding the wrongness of revenge and the purpose of human laws.

Mostly though, Dawn is apologizing.

“I’m so sorry, Buffy! It was our fault, we brought this on! We should’ve been more careful with the orb, more secretive, you know? We didn’t even think to thoroughly check the place for nosy spectators before we opened the portal!” She sniffles, not letting go of her sister’s arm. “But it took us two days to get the damned orb. Anya told us not to worry, that time runs much slower in this dimension, but we didn’t really know, right? I’m so sorry!”

Buffy wraps her arm around Dawn’s shoulder and gently steers her toward Xander’s car. “It’s okay, Dawnie,” she soothes. “You did right. You couldn’t know that they would try something like that. You saved us!” She smiles at her upset sister. “Today, you are my hero!”

A tentative smile lights up Dawn’s face. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Without you, we never could have left the portal. How did you even know?”

Dawn hesitates; she knows her sister too well to think she’d forget that she ordered her to stay at home and opts for skipping the leaving-home-disobeying-Buffy’s orders part entirely. 

“I saw you two in the portal, and I saw them close it. I ran like hell back home and dialed Xander’s number about a thousand times until he finally answered the phone.” At the sharp look Buffy shoots her, she hastens to add, “I know I should’ve just called the others, but I couldn’t reach _any_ of them! So what, I should’ve just sat around growing my hair? And it was good that I went after you, right? Otherwise you’d be stuck in there forever! Or, or maybe they would’ve opened the portal and killed you, right? I _couldn’t_ lose you again, Buffy! I couldn’t.”

Her face contorts to a mask of desperation, and Buffy is rendered disarmed. She suddenly knows that Dawn is right; she’s not a kid anymore. She can’t expect her to sit around and do nothing, not with everything she’s already been through. And she _did_ everything right. She was brave enough to follow her to investigate and smart enough to not get caught and get help instead.

Buffy feels something rise in her that she hasn’t felt toward anyone for a long time. And with sudden clarity she knows who is responsible for kicking that particular door down.

She slings both her arms around Dawns shoulders and pulls her into a tight embrace. “I told you already, you did right, Dawnie. I mean it. You had a decision to make, and you made the right one. I’m awfully proud of you.”

“What?” Dawn struggles to break free from the hug, keeping her sister at arm’s length and eying her warily. “Are you okay?”

Buffy grins at her. “Yeah. Well, at least I’m getting there. And I really mean it.” Her face turns stern then. “That doesn’t mean that you’re going to go on patrol with me. But I guess it couldn’t hurt to show you a few moves. Only to protect yourself, of course,” she continues to dampen the squees her sister lets out.

She catches sight of Xander’s expression and is surprised by his approval. For a moment, while she pushes Dawn into the car and gets in herself, she wonders if she should feel so happy about it. Then she shrugs it away; she simply is, because it felt nothing like fulfilling someone’s expectations. And Xander respects her decision. She’s not even sure he really likes it; she just feels he understands and approves, no matter what he thinks would be right. That is new, and it feels – good. 

Buffy smiles.

 

                                   **********************************

 

Half an hour later, Dawn is asleep and Xander is back with some beer for himself and soda for Buffy. They sit on bar stools in the kitchen, and Buffy waits.

She knows he’s going to ask, and surprisingly she’s okay with it. Something shifted between them, and she doesn’t think it’s only her. So she waits.

“Dawn’s asleep?” he asks, fiddling with the bottle’s label.

Buffy nods. “Yes.” She braces herself and then dives in, head first. She stills his hand with hers and catches his eyes. “You don’t have to beat around the bush, Xan. I know you want to ask something. Go ahead.”

Xander looks at her for a moment, surprise in his face, then he gulps down some of his beer and resumes fiddling with the label again before it bursts out of him.

“What the hell happened back there, Buffy?”

“What did you see?”

“I was being held by the ugly red chunk and saw Dawn handing Warren the orb. And then I woke up, bound at hands and feet, to the sight I always warned you about. He attacked you, Buffy.”

She sighs. She tilts her head back and throws a glance at the ceiling, then closes her eyes to collect herself. She draws in a deep breath and turns back to Xander.

“Yes.”

“You trusted him, despite everything you know, and he thanked you by attacking you.”

He’s surprisingly calm, and she wonders whether he revels in having been right. But then she detects the uncertainty flickering in his eyes and she pulls herself together. He has no clue of what really occurred tonight.

“You have seen what happened after that.”

He drinks again and turns his confused face to her. “And that’s what doesn’t make any sense,” he says, furrowing his brows. “I feel like I should wonder why he stopped, but actually I wonder why he even started in the first place, what with the eternal love for you he always professes, and with the chip in his head going wild, you know? Man, he’s neutered, right? I have to say, even though _I_ never forgot what he was, I kinda got used to him being harmless and being - being there, you know? A pain in all our asses, but harmless, and - harmless. And then suddenly he attacks you of all people. And later…” He trails off, shrugging helplessly. “What happened, Buffy?”

“They forced him to.”

“ _Forced_ him? I didn’t think anyone could force Spike to turn against you, after Glory.” He frowns bewilderedly at that concession to the extent of the vampire’s feelings for her coming out of his mouth, but he lets it slide. So does she.

“No, I didn’t either. And what’s more, I’m pretty sure _he_ didn’t ever expect someone could.” She leans a little closer. “And I know nobody would even have to think about trying without the help of magic.”

Xander’s brows go up. “Magic? Oh.” He averts his eyes, but she still sees the hint of disappointment that scurries over his face before it’s gone. “Okay, I guess that explains it. But the chip would’ve zapped him back anyway, and the scumbags knew it. Dawn told me Warren found out and beat the crap out of him before he shoved him into the portal. Why did they even bother to try?”

Buffy sighs; it’s time. She knows she can’t hold it back any longer. She is done with the whole secrecy thing, and she hopes she’s ready to deal with the fallout. She inhales once more, and then she looks him in the eyes.

“Because they also knew that the chip didn’t take with me anymore. They saw us fight right before we got caught in the portal the first time around.”

There it is again, that urge to run and hide. But she doesn’t. She waits, silently, nervously picking at her fingernails.

“Wait, _what_? The chip didn’t _work_ with you? Since when? Buffy, we have to do something about it.” He grabs her arm, clearly on the verge of jumping into action instantly.

“Since you…since I came back.” She chuckles unhappily. ”But I didn’t come back wrong or, you know, a demon, or some such thing. Just an itsy-bitsy smidgen different. Just so that the chip couldn’t read me as human. We found out after Willow’s forgetting spell.” She peels his fingers off her arm and cradles his hand in hers. “He never attempted anything, Xander. Even though he had countless opportunities. He never even vamped out when we –“

She stops, suddenly aware of what she almost let slip, unsure whether she’s really ready for it. Or Xander for that matter, who flinches the instant he realizes what she just stopped at. He looks at her, and she hates to see the expression on his face, this mixture of suspicion, incredulity and hurt. “When you - what?”

He speaks slowly, quietly too, as if not sure if it isn’t a mistake, if his hunch doesn’t come true when he asks louder. Only when he sees her leaning away from him, seeking physical distance to him, he asks again, and now it’s urgency she hears loud and clear; the urgency not to tell her the wrong thing. “When you _what_ , Buffy?”

She shudders. And then she decides to finally jump off that cliff.

“When we slept together.”

It comes out as a whisper, but Xander backs away from her as if she’d yelled at him, his expression turning to one of utter disgust for a moment. He glides off his stool and stands behind it, using it as a shield between them to fortify the distance. For a moment she thinks he’s leaving. Leaving her behind with the shards of their friendship.

But he stays.

When he speaks again, his voice is hoarse, as if not used for days. “Why the hell would you do that?”

He’s not angry. He’s disappointed, she sees that, but not as much as she dreaded him to be.

“For brief periods of time, he made me -- feel again,” she whispers, and she can hear how pathetic that sounds.

“Made you feel what exactly?” The anger that wasn’t there before begins slowly to creep in his voice, and she wonders whether it’s directed at her or at Spike. She doesn’t answer immediately, doesn’t know how to explain what she herself doesn’t understand in its whole crappy mess. And then suddenly the anger is there, in his eyes, in his furrowed brows, in his steps around the stool to grab her shoulder. “Tell me what Spike made you feel, Buffy. What he could give you that none of us, of your _friends_ , could’ve given you, too.”

“Anything,” she whispers and hesitantly meets his eyes. She reels back at the sheer fury she’s hit with by them and shrugs his hand off her shoulder. It’s then that it finally bursts out of her. Like a tidal wave it crashes over them, and now she’s not whispering any longer.

“Spike made me feel _anything_ , Xander! Something I couldn’t on my own, after you pulled me out, and he was the only one who saw it! My _friends_ were expecting me to be grateful, to be happy that they had saved me, and even after they knew where they had torn me from, they never made any attempt to be really there for me. To help me get used to this world again. Not _one_ of you, Xander. You were much too preoccupied by feeling guilty, making it impossible for me to show what I really felt like. The only times I didn’t have to hide were when I was with the vampire I used to hate.”

She pauses, almost panting from her outbreak, and watches his face change.

“And Spike took advantage of your trust.”

“No, Xander, he didn’t!” She all but yells, not caring about her sister sleeping upstairs. “He never was anything but a friend to me. I was the one who took advantage of him! I took advantage of his love and his devotion! I was the one who jumped his bones!”

It’s completely quiet after that, the thunderous silence after a storm, and it leaves them both stunned. Xander stares at her, shocked by her outburst as much as by her words, and watches while all the anger drains out of her and leaves her like a deflated balloon.

It takes him a long while to find his voice again, and when he does, it’s not much more than a whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, and she sees he’s more wounded than anything.

“You wouldn’t have wanted to hear it,” she says.

“You never even tried me,” he replies softly.

She looks at him, and suddenly she knows he’s right, and Spike was too. She never tried one of her friends, because she was so sure they couldn’t deal. Maybe it was a mistake, she thinks and nods. “Well, you know now.”

He swallows. “Were you…were you in love with him?” He looks awfully like he’s in a trial, like he’s not sure he gave the right answer, only it’s _her_ response he’s not so sure will be right.

She shakes her head and closes her eyes for a moment. “No. I only used him.”

Xander snorts, and for a moment, he’s exactly the Xander she expected him to be after the bombshell she just dropped. “Jeez, I bet he was happy to be of service.”

She’s not surprised, and she knows it’s mostly a diversion tactic disguised as sarcasm, to not be forced to look closer at her part in that whole ordeal, but it irks her nonetheless. “No, Xander, he wasn’t. I hurt him. A lot. And I don’t mean just physically.” She sees something shift in his face, sees him reluctantly allowing himself to maybe consider his one-sided view of things, and closes the distance between them, both by stepping closer and by talking.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but he loves me. He did last year, and he still does. It never mattered that the chip didn’t work on me anymore.  He would never intentionally do anything to hurt me. You saw that tonight, didn’t you?”

He tries to draw back, but she doesn’t let him. This is too important to her, that he finally hears the truth and doesn’t leave her after. That he accepts seeing her climbing from the pedestal he put her on and still calls himself her friend.

He swallows. It’s a lot to take in, and she can see him struggling, fighting his impulse to throw it back at her. He tries, and she’s grateful.

“I saw him attacking, and then he stopped,” he whispers, “and I have no idea why. Please, Buffy, tell me what happened.”

“I never doubted that he’d stop,” she says quietly. When she continues, her voice gets hard. “They did a spell to bring forth his demon, and to take away his humanity. Everything that makes Spike who he is, the way he thinks, the way he feels – they took that away from him. What was left was not much more than an animal. But they underestimated how strong the humanity in him still is. How strongly he feels.” She doesn’t notice that the tone of her voice changes again, unknowingly glides into the well-known tenderness. “How strongly he loves. I only had to remind him. That was all it took to break the spell.”

Xander is visibly taken aback. “He broke a spell placed on him? In that condition? That seems unbelievable.”

“You saw it yourself, Xander.”

“I don’t know what I saw, Buffy. That’s just it, I…”

“Then trust me,” she interrupts him, her eyes boring into his, urging, pleading. _Trust me, even after everything I just told you,_ they say. He’s silenced. Then he bows his head.

“I do. What you just told me is hard to believe. But I do trust you.”

“That means a lot.” She feels tears of relief forming in her eyes; it’s been so long that one of her friends, especially Xander, trusted her not just with being super-heroy, but also with her day-to-day decisions, especially her decisions concerning her personal life. All the more since all things Spike have always been a sore spot with Xander anyway.

But then he lifts his head again and meets her eyes head-on. “And now tell me what you mean with ‘ _we_ got caught in the portal the first time around’.”

Shit.

She completely forgot the story she told them back then. She’s tempted for a second to backpedal, tell him that she misspoke and meant _her_ , not _them_. She thinks of Spike; who risked everything to save her, who forfeited his nature, just for her, and she can’t.

“We got caught in there together.” She speaks calmly, despite the turmoil inside her. And suddenly she realizes – it’s important to her that Xander knows. What’s more, if he doesn’t like it, she can live with that. She just hopes he can, too.

From then on she feels liberated. She’ll tell him what happened; it’ll be his decision what he makes of it. “I couldn’t leave it, but he could. And he figured out a way to get me out. He left, but only to come back later and save me.”

She pauses, but Xander interrupts the brief silence. “You never told us how you got out in the first place; and now you’re telling me that he saved you? I don’t understand,” he says, and she can tell that, even though he tries to make it sound challenging, he’s more surprised than anything.

She laughs, again that unhappy sound. “You and me both. I still don’t how he did it. But I know he’s not been cursed. He did something else to get it.” Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, she loses herself in thought for a moment. She remembers the images she got from Spike when they fused their souls, and she realizes that she _does_ know. “I think he fought for it.” She’s startled when Xander reels back.

“You mean…” He can’t even finish the sentence.

Oh, right, she hadn’t mentioned the soul part yet. “Yes.” She grabs Xander’s hands, clutching them like a life line, her hands betraying how deeply shaken she still is by what this vampire did for her. “Xander. He did it to save me from the portal, but I think that’s not the only reason. I think there’s more to it.”

There’s a long silence before Xander dares to break it. “You mean he got his soul? Willingly?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” she says, and she can hear it herself, how tiny her voice sounds all of a sudden.

“Wow.” He leans back and breathes out. And then they are both quiet for a long time. Until again Xander is the one to break the silence.

“That’s a little like a demon turned human,” he says softly, “only…better.”

She looks at him, not trusting what she heard. “Xander?”

Xander stares at his bottle for a while, then downs the rest of the liquid in it. He stands up, walks over to the fridge, takes out another bottle. He discards the empty bottle, opens the new one, takes a draft. Then he finally sits on the bar stool again. During all that, Buffy quietly observes him, dreading his next step.

And then it comes.

“Are you _now_?”

That’s even worse than she dreaded, because of course she knows what he means. But he misinterprets her silence, her round eyes.

“You said you weren’t. Past tense. Are you now?”

She stares at him, still at a loss for words. He sighs.

“Buffy,” he says, his voice soothing like one would use with a frightened child, “a blind man could see that something changed between you two. _You_ changed. So, let’s pretend for a second we haven’t been best friends for almost 6 years,” he says, “and more importantly, let’s pretend I haven’t been majorly wigged out by the bleached vampire from day one. Say I’m a total stranger who doesn’t know anything about vampires and slayers and stuff at all. Say I’m this dashing stranger, who is totally going to take your secrets away with him on his long and winding road. What would you tell me?”

She pulls her shoulders up, rubs her hands like she is cold. How can he do this to her? Ask her these questions she doesn’t know the answers to, she doesn’t want to know?

He grabs her hands, taking them into his big, warm ones. “Buffy.”

“What?” she whispers.

“What would you tell that stranger?”

“I don’t know…”

It’s barely audible, and she’s sure it tells him more than shouting the unknown truth could have told him.

He gently lets go of her hands, takes in a deep breath and straightens, and then he grins. A good old Xander grin, albeit a little strained. “If I were you, I’d go looking for him. He did seem a little out of it when he dashed away. Maybe he’d like to hear that _you don’t know_. “

“What? You’re not giving me the whole if-he’s-not-the-guy speech again, are you?”

He looks at her, and she can see that a lot happens behind those eyes. “You _hit_ me, on behalf of Spike of all people.” She cringes; they never really talked about it, and it hurts her just like him. “It hurt. Not just physically. It hurt in here.” He snatches her hand back and places it on his chest, and she feels his heart race. That’s when she knows, he is as much on unknown territory as she is.

“It was Anya who built me up again. She also said some cryptic things about Spike and you, things I didn’t understand then. But I think I do now. I think she helped him somehow, to do what he had to do to save you. When Dawn yelled something about a portal and you and Spike vanishing in it, Anya just shrugged and began to use her contacts to get this orb thingy. I guess it wasn’t the first time.” He pauses, and she doesn’t dare make a sound. “What I want to say with this is - something struck me when she told me those things, and now I know. It was one demon turned human helping another one with it. Well, not turning human, but, you know. Buffy, she understood him in ways I never even tried. They have something in common that I will never understand. But – I love her. And I trust her.”

Buffy sits very still.

“I held back much too long with what I felt for the ex-demon in my life. For a long time, I didn’t see the efforts she made to adjust; at the very least, I didn’t appreciate them. I’m not making that mistake again. If Anya sees something in him worth caring for, I’m gonna trust her on this.”

He squeezes her hand still placed on his chest before laying it back on the counter beside them.

“But what’s more, if you think there’s something in him worth hitting me, I’m gonna trust your judgment.” He smiles sadly. “I’m not going to make this mistake again either.”

She’s speechless for a long while. Then she draws in a breath like being on the edge of drowning, and she also feels like that. But slowly, breathing is getting easier.

“So you basically send me on my way to do, what?” Her eyes are rooted to his face, big and round and kind of helpless. But he just smiles that sweet little sad smile again.

“I’m not sending you anywhere, Buffy. I just try to accept that it’s your life you’re living, not ours. Even if we were the ones forcing you to live it again. Especially then.” A look of guilt washes over his features. “Buffy, -”

“Don’t.” It’s her lifting her hands to cup his this time. “Nothing to feel guilty for. Not anymore.” Her eyes drift away from him, somewhere in the distance she knows he can’t follow. They follow her mind’s eye that is flooded with images she didn’t yet talk about, and she knows she’s not going to. She sees herself clinging to Spike in the portal, shaken by fear to give in to the pull. She sees the makeshift ties he bound her with, remembers the smell that kept her grounded enough to not crawl through the veil. Sees him in the crypt, nearly insane, and feels again the fear she felt then, the fear of losing him, even when she didn’t know yet the reason for his insanity. Sees him struggling to keep his humanity, even though some monsters put a spell on him to get rid of it.

She feels relief coursing through her, and she chuckles quietly. “I guess I’m over it.”

She looks up to her friend again, and she feels that something profoundly changed. Between the two of them, but more importantly inside herself. And it’s not just the newfound will to live her life, to finally view it as second chance.

She rises to her feet and steps beside her friend. She hugs him fiercely, until he gasps and reminds her that, again, she lapsed at controlling her strength. “Thank you, Xander.”

He wraps his arms around her and holds her, and it feels so good, so much like coming home, that a contented sigh escapes her. When they separate after a while, Buffy feels one more piece of herself slip into place, just like that.

Xander clears his throat. “I’m gonna call it a night and head home,” he says, and she gets it. It’s a lot to take in, and she can see that he’s not entirely at ease with what he just decided; she finds that she doesn’t care. He made that decision, that’s all that counts. She nods.

“Yeah. It’s late anyway. I’m gonna turn in, too.”

He nods, gulps down the remaining contents of the bottle, dumps it in the trash can and follows her to the front door. He snatches his jacket from the hook and hugs her again.

“Sleep tight,” he says.

“You too.”

They both know, neither of them will.

 


	19. After the Storm (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here goes the last chapter, enjoy!

** Chapter 19  **

**After the Storm (Part II)**

 

 _And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears._  
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.  
Get over your hill and see what you find there,  
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.

_(Mumford and Sons)_

 

 

God, that was close.

He almost killed her. Almost killed the woman he loves.

He pushes the door open, staggers into his crypt and slumps to his knees.

He can’t believe he almost did that. All it took was a simple spell, one that even the small boy could come up with. One spell, and not only did he disregard his soul, mauled and almost killed again, but nearly killed the one person in the world whose death he knows he can’t survive a second time.

A tremor races through him and leaves him shaking - he’s a danger. After everything he did, he’s still a danger. The vampire in him is too strong, even for the soul. The soul doesn’t change a bloody thing.

He remembers what he felt when he was connected to Buffy – her despair, but also the streak of light. He remembers the hope and happiness that washed through him, remembers the warmth inside when he understood that he was the one bringing it out in her.

But what is all that worth if…His face contorts in anguish, and a small sound of pain slips out of his throat, like a whimper, but not quite.

 _Hurt her! That’s all you want to do! Kill her!_ He still hears the boy fueling his instincts. Even worse, he still feels the echo of what the skank elicited within him. For a split second it’s there again, the need to kill. The spell might be broken, but there are still remnants of it lingering.

Or maybe – maybe it’s not the spell anymore. Maybe it never has been.

Maybe it’s just him.

“ _No!_ ”

The shout bursting out of him is meant to convey assurance, to banish the existence of it being remotely possible that getting his soul was in vain; yet, it eerily lacks conviction.

Instead, it sounds much more like despair.

The tears rolling down his cheeks confirm that he already knows.

He’s a danger. And if it’s so easy to bring out the beast, if he’s a danger even to the people he loves, he has no business being here. He has to leave Sunnydale. Go someplace where nobody knows him, nobody knows that there’s a monster in him that is just waiting to be unleashed.

Go someplace where nobody will let it loose.

Leave Buffy behind.

“No,” he whispers again, and now he doesn’t even try to convince himself of anything.

 

                                   ******************************************

 

She sits on her bed like a statue, staring into the distance. She’d like to pretend that she’s thinking things through, but the truth is far from it. Her brain is too jumbled to catch any clear thought at all.

 _I don’t know_ , she told Xander, and God was that ever true. He practically sent her to Spike, even if he denied it in the end. And she knows he was right, she should go there and check on him. But what could she even help him with if she doesn’t know _anything_ herself? Still, she knows he was shocked to the bone by what had happened to him, him running away -despite being the one that _never_ runs away from anything - not the only clue. And she longs to go to him, yearns to reassure him, because she knows he needs it.

But at the same time it feels very much like not wanting to go anywhere, least of all where Xander sent her. Not like the last time her friend sent her after a man, back then, when she ran until her lungs were just shy from bursting to be in time to stop Riley from leaving her, on the odd possibility that it _might_ work out.

And yet, her heart races just like then, and there’s this longing part of her that wants nothing but to go there. It’s as if this connection she felt when their souls had fused, this connection that felt somehow like it had always been there between them, is pulling her to him.  So why does she still sit here?

Stupid fear. She’s the Slayer; she’s supposed to be fearless. But this, this isn’t something she can beat on long and hard enough until the problem is solved. Because the fear is inside her, deep down, where she can’t even reach with her fists.

God, he gained his _soul_ for her! He didn’t bring flowers or complimented her on her good looks. He gave her the gift of getting his soul, for God sakes! When she had been the one to lose Angel his soul, something she could never undo, no matter how hard she tried. No matter how often she saved the world, this was always part of what defined her, however deep she’d tried to bury it. Buffy Summers, Slayer, destroyer of the good; that has been her ever since she made the mistake of falling in love.

Until now. Because suddenly everything’s different. Suddenly she’s worth a soul. What she could never do, he did for her - earn back a soul.

She shivers. He was willing to give up everything, to deal with the pain that he must have known would follow, only to be for her what she needed him to be. Without any hope for reward.

Her thoughts drift to Riley again; he had gotten everything from her she was prepared to give, and yet he left. It wasn’t enough. Because she wasn’t ready to commit herself completely to him.

Not after Angel.

After Angel, she could never risk that much again, because she wasn’t sure she would survive it a second time. She _had_ to keep her heart behind a wall to protect it from shattering. So she built it up inside, and she let no one through to the very core.

Until _someone_ came along and began to chip away at that wall, against all her defenses, brought it tumbling down and left her vulnerable.

And then, instead of taking advantage of her state, he went and did this huge thing for her.

Gained his soul.

The first time in years that her heart lay bare and open for someone to crush, and he not only didn’t betray her hesitant trust and hurt her, but made himself even more vulnerable instead.

She thinks back to what happened two hours ago. Had she been asked whether or not she thought it possible to override a spell put on someone, she would have denied it in a heartbeat. And still she had absolute faith in him; there hadn’t been a single second that she had any doubt that he’d get it done. Not after what she’d just seen in his soul. After she’d witnessed the grief and anguish he felt at what he had done, but also the immeasurable love inside him that warmed her heart, and the strength that came with it.

All well and good. But where the hell does that leave her?

She snorts; _only one way to find out_ , she thinks, picking up her boots to pull on again, and with them all the courage she can get a hold of.

 

**************************************

 

After only about ten short minutes, she finds herself at his crypt. Her hand rises, but instead of pushing the door open, she just lays it against the weathered wood. She still has no idea what to do once she is inside. She seriously contemplates whether going back home maybe would be the better choice, until she realizes that her hand once more seems to have a life of its own, because the door is already moving in its hinges.

She enters the crypt, slowly, cautiously, a little out of breath, even though she didn’t run. It’s surprisingly dark in here. She needs a moment to catch sight of him, standing by the sarcophagus, unmoving, his head bent down, his shoulders slumped. It takes another second to detect the cause for the unusual darkness - there are no candles lit. Not one.

Her heart sinks.

She’s unsure about what to say, so she stays quiet. Then her eyes fall on a lump a few steps from him, and she recognizes it as his duffle. Fright hits her like a punch, and that finally propels her a step forward.

“You’re leaving?” 

She can hear the panic in her voice, panic because she knows how this story goes.

_You’re leaving me?_

The tension doesn’t leave him, but he doesn’t stand like a statue any longer. He lifts his face to the ceiling and takes a breath, as if coming to a relieving decision, and she wonders if the fear in her voice has anything to do with it.

“Thought about it. Can’t,” he says very quietly, and suddenly she’s not so sure anymore if he’s really relieved.

“Why?” Her voice sounds very small, and she doesn’t know herself whether she means ‘why did you want to leave’ or ‘why can’t you’. When he turns his head and gives her this look, one brow raised in disbelief, she knows it doesn’t matter, because his answer fits in any case.

He closes his eyes, and when he reopens them, she sees so much agony in them that it almost knocks her off her feet. This is not what she expected, not after what she’s seen in his soul, and not after what he accomplished tonight. Not even after him fleeing. She steps closer, tentatively, just a few inches. She feels the impact of fear pouncing on her, impaling every cell of her body, making her breath hitch in pain. Fear to be too late, to not be able to reach him anymore. She can almost feel the bubble he closed himself in, can almost smell it, and she has to fight the nearly uncontrollable urge to burst through it to get to him. She’s held back only by the sudden certainty that he’d vanish into thin air if his protection did.

“You know,” he says, and then he’s there, she can feel him all around her, even though neither of them moved. He raises his hand, slowly as if unsure how to move faster, and she sees the slight tremble in his fingers when they near her face just as they change direction and land on her bare shoulder. Only the fingertips, and only for a second, but a jolt surges through her unlike anything she ever felt.

That’s when she knows.

She’s right to be here. Here is where she belongs. With him.

She feels the pain drain away, flowing out of her body like water, taking a lot of the dirt and filth with it that had burdened her for months. She lifts her eyes, finally ready to meet his, and when they do, she feels him sink into her, holding onto her to keep from drifting away.

“Buffy,” he whispers, and for a moment hope flares in his eyes. And for a moment she feels complete. Warm. Loved.

But then he reels back. Snatches his hand back from her as if burning from her heat. His eyes darken, and then they close off.

***

“Spike?”

He’s surprised just how small her voice sounds. For a moment he wavers; she’s been offering so much, just with her being here. How could he reject her? But then he straightens.

“I’m dangerous.”

 _I’m dangerous_. It made him so proud to say that about himself, once upon a time. Now it has a different ring to it. It terrifies him like nothing ever has.

She’s silent. Did he expect her to object? No, not really. Still hoped it, maybe, stupid git that he is.

He sees her swallow, then she finally speaks.

“That never stopped you from being here.”

He averts his eyes, forces himself not to see her face, the uncertainty written all over it. Not to think about what she’s so uncertain about.

“Everything’s different now,” he whispers.

He hears her inhaling sharply, and he can almost feel the change in her, can feel the air charge with it. “Yeah, exactly, Spike. It’s different now.” There’s a conviction in her voice all of a sudden that is new to it, an urgency to listen to her that makes him glance at her again.

Then he understands. “The soul?” he spits out, and her flinching tells him that was what she meant. Of course it was, he thinks and laughs bitterly. “The soul doesn’t make me any less dangerous. You saw that tonight, Buffy. The soul doesn’t make a bloody difference.”

“It makes all the difference in the world,” she says, her voice so low that he’s not even sure he understood her right.

Oh, how he would love to believe her. That now that the spell is broken, everything will be okay, from now on and forever. Just like in a fairytale. Because of the soul.

But she’s wrong, and she has to understand.

“What good is it having a sodding soul if it still can be so easily overridden by the demon? I almost _killed_. I almost killed _you_.” He nearly chokes on the last word, his eyes flaring in an icy blue.

She nods. “Yes, but you didn’t. You came through in time.”

“Yeah, because it was you. What if next time, it’s the niblet? Or Xander? Not hard to manipulate the demon into raging fury _there_.” He steps closer, looms over her menacingly. “If it hadn’t been you, I’d have killed. Soul or not, it wouldn’t have mattered. What you saw back there was nothing short of a killing machine. The demon rejoices in the kill, it knows no fear, and it loves inflicting pain. If this part of me can’t be controlled by the soul, if even a sodding _child_ can achieve that, then it doesn’t really make a difference.”

Bewilderment flashes in her eyes for just a second, but it’s replaced instantly by a stern look. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“ _I_ have – “ He’s rendered speechless for a brief moment, then he grabs her shoulders, hard. “Didn’t you listen to me? Haven’t you _looked_ earlier? The demon was out of control. I was about to kill the woman I _love_ , and there was _nothing_ I could’ve done to stop it!”

“Yes, there was.”

His head snaps back a little. “What?” He stares at her incredulously. “Where were you when my teeth were mere seconds away from ripping your throat out?”

“I was right there. Don’t you understand? There was something you could do, and you _did_!” She’s stepping closer to him again, her eyes blazing into his with a conviction he doesn’t understand. “It wasn’t me holding you back from hurting me. It was you! If you hadn’t done that, I’d be dead now. It was the good in you making you stop. And,” she pauses, drawing in a breath, “I’m not sure it has anything to do with the soul.”

He looks at her, watches her start to shake, and knows he’s not the only one feeling exposed without protective walls, and he knows more than ever that what he’s about to say is true.

“The only good in me,” he whispers, “is you.”

She shakes her head, determination coloring her voice. “No, see, that’s where you’re wrong. There was always good in you, as much as you liked to deny it, and as much as we all tried to make you believe your lies that you were purely evil.” She reaches for his hands, but shies away the next second, as if she’s afraid she’ll be less convincing if she touches him. “It was _you_ gaining your soul, not me.”

He feels that he’s shaking now, too, and his knees feel as if they are about to give. “But – “

She wipes his objection away with her words cutting him off. “It was the good in you that yearned for the soul, and that was also what held you back from killing me tonight. You didn’t need the soul for that. You never did.” She breathes in deeply, but she’s not done yet.

“The soul,” she says, and then she hesitates. He wants to touch her, give her some of his strength, like he always longs to, until he realizes – she doesn’t need it.

“The soul,” she repeats, “frees you.”

He stares at her, silently waiting for her to explain, because he doesn’t understand.

“You don’t need me any longer,” she whispers, and now he reels back as if slapped in the face. Protest rises in him that he’ll always need her, but he catches it before it can tumble out of his mouth, because he sees her face, and what he detects there is nothing but joyful pride. She’s glowing, her eyes shining brightly, and he understands - it’s not rejection she’s talking about.

“It’s not about what they brought out in you tonight, or that it was eager to kill me in spite of the soul.” Her voice is getting stronger with every word she speaks, until it pierces his skin and gets hold of his heart. “With the right spell, everybody can be made into a killer. Having a soul makes no difference there. It’s about who you are in this instant. It’s about you thinking of leaving, of leaving everything you love behind, because you don’t want to endanger any more lives.”

He backs away from her, seeking distance even while his eyes are riveted to hers. She doesn’t let him, stepping closer yet, no matter that he’s not even remotely ready to hear her, to believe her words. He can’t help but listen. ”I saw your past. I know what you did, how much you enjoyed it. I _felt_ it. But I also felt how horrified you are about it now. You _know_ that nothing in this world can make it undone; not even your soul. But you would do _any_ thing to never let that happen again. Even let go of me.” She breathes in deeply, and he can see her fighting something down, an emotion he can’t quite catch. But then he sees it replaced by something else shining brightly in her face – pride. “It’s about me _not_ being the only reason for you not wanting to kill any longer. _That_ is what the soul is about. _That_ is why it makes all the difference in the world.”

He can’t move a single muscle, stunned by her words. At first it feels like a punch into his gut, and he can feel that something breaks inside. But then he feels warmth spreading within him, coming from his heart where she just touched him, and he knows it wasn’t something breaking, but being torn down to let the warmth out, let it disperse. He stands before her, watching her watch him, and he feels everything slowly falling into place. He wants to cry in relief, because she is right - he doesn’t need her anymore. Not like he did before. For the first time since – ever, really, he doesn’t need anybody.

For the first time ever, he is his own man.

A man who can trust himself.

And that is what the soul gave him.

And in the end, that is what Buffy gave him.

Slowly, slowly a smile sneaks into his eyes.

 

***

 

She watches the change in him, sees the truth sinking in, and her heart sings. For the first time in a very long time, she’s truly happy. Happy for him, because she knows he’s earned that.

Yet, at the same time she can barely breathe. Because with every word she says, with every piece of Spike she watches fall into place, she feels the uncertainty rising in her about what this means for her.

She sees his eyes glow brightly, like she has never seen them before, and she feels her insides quiver.

She swallows hard, only a faint whisper leaving her, afraid that any sound from her could shatter something precious.

“Are you?”

He watches her for a long time, his eyes narrowing, and she wonders whether he contemplates her question or his answer.

“Am I what?” There’s a softness to his voice that she didn’t expect, that gingerly burns into her with its warmth.

“Leaving.” _Leaving me_.

Again he doesn’t say anything for a long while, his eyes rooted to hers, as if he’s trying to figure out how to answer that by looking into her eyes. “Do you want me to?” he then asks, and she doesn’t miss the slight tremor in his voice.

_Are you now?_

_I don’t know…_

That’s when she finally understands, understands what she wants.

And finally she feels the last pieces of herself fall into place as well; finally she’s strong enough to face the truth.

“No,” she says.

She sees his eyes light up, sees him then cautiously draw a curtain of wariness to shield him.

“That right?” he says, tilting his head aside a little. “Why?”

She swallows again. “I don’t want to miss the man you are now,” she explains, her voice warm and tender again. But she still sees the small wince.

“All right then,” he says after taking a deep breath and straightening, “I reckon I could stay a while.”

Even though he tries to hide it, she sees a look of resignation scurry over his face. He turns away from her, and her heart hurts when she catches sight of his eyes, sees the light behind the curtain dim a fraction. She watches him walk over to where his duffel lies, grab it and open the zipper, obviously on his way to unpack, when suddenly a surge of panic shoots through her, because she feels like she said it all wrong. As if this was her last and only opportunity to do better, she hurries to follow him and grabs his arm.

“There’s more,” she says.

 

***

Her fingers dig into his arm as if she has to hold onto him to keep him from vanishing any second. She urges him to turn toward her, and when he does, he looks into her eyes, round and slightly panicky, just like her fingers on his arms feel. He can hear her heart beating frantically, and as if the panic were contagious, he feels all the borrowed blood draining from his face. He can’t say a thing, his throat constricted with anxiousness, so he just stares at her and waits, silently awaiting her words.

Only they don’t come, because all she does is stare back. It begins to hurt where her fingers still clamp down on his muscles, but he barely notices. His whole being is focused on her; there’s no room for feeling pain.

He sees her struggle for words and begins to wonder if she’ll ever find them when all of a sudden she lets him go.

Disappointment rises in him, cold and heavy, and at the same time he feels for her, because he can see how hard she’s trying. And of course the urge to reassure her gets the upper hand and fights the disappointment down.

“Buffy -,” he starts, backing away from her a little to give her some space, to show her she doesn’t need to say anything, but she cuts him off resolutely.

“No. Don’t,” she says, and he’s rooted to the spot.

She squeezes her eyes shut for a few seconds, and then they fly open again, and he sees something cross her face, as if she’s relieved that he’s still there, and finally words begin to tumble from her lips.

“There’s so much more I want to tell you. About how I couldn’t feel anything after I came back.” She breathes in heavily and slowly inches closer. “About how I met Angel and hoped to trigger some emotion, but there was nothing.” He sees her wincing and knows she mirrors his reaction to his sire’s name. Then her face softens; slowly she closes the distance between them and gently takes his hand in hers, and it leaves him almost shocked. But she pins him with her gaze and goes on. “About how, for a long time, the only one I ever felt something with was you,” she whispers.

He lets out a grunt and pulls his hand back. “Yeah. Made your body sing, didn’t I?” It’s meant to sound like his usual innuendo-mixed snark, but he can hear that it doesn’t work. It just sounds bitter. He mentally kicks himself for even saying it and closes his eyes, not sure if he can bear a look of disgust on her face at the reminder of what happened between them all those months. Not so sure if he wants to be reminded himself.

He hears her inhaling sharply, but then she keeps on talking as if nothing had happened, except her voice is stronger now, holding more conviction. “I want to tell you about how you brought me the first glimpse of light back, right in front of the veil that separated us from the blackest darkness of all. About how I held onto you, even when you had left me there, because I knew I could.”

His eyes snap open at that. He hadn’t known that, never would’ve dreamed of it, and he feels something new, unknown to him, a tingling sensation deep down in his belly. He watches her now, drinks her in, really, because there’s no hint of disgust on her face, only a soft gleam that lights her eyes as a shuddering breath escapes her.

“I want to tell you about how much it means to me that you did this incredible thing for me - gaining your soul back. For me! After what I did to Angel’s soul –” She breaks off, and he can hear her heart hammering in her chest. And suddenly he’s not really sure anymore that it’s not also his heart pounding there.

She swallows, and he sees her fighting with more than just a lump in her throat, sees her eyes glistening. “I want to tell you that things changed after that, got easier. Because I felt different. Because for the first time since I came back I began to feel whole again.”

She looks down on the small place between their feet, and then she laughs, only a small laugh, because she doesn’t know what to do instead. “But what I want to tell you most of all is that it felt like…when you got your soul back, it felt like I could feel mine start to heal. It’s like there’s a fire back in me, and I can feel its warmth again, and all that was dead inside me melts to life. And –” She reaches for him now, not only with her eyes, but with her hands, “ _you_ did this.”

He stares at her, then at their hands, and all at once he has to bring distance between them again, because he’s overwhelmed by what he’s feeling, and he fears he’s going to start to cry.

Of all the things she could’ve said, this is the best he could have dreamed of. It was all worth it. He helped her heal. He feels the damned tears spilling and turns away from her even further, walking over to the small window to light a candle, to do anything with his fingers to distract himself, but it’s futile. He can’t stop thinking that he helped her heal, and he feels the small drops on his hand, and then he feels her fingertips dipping in them. He hadn’t even heard her coming.

“Don’t leave,” she says.

_Don’t leave._

“Why?” He’s not sure he said that, but she answers, so he probably did.

“Because I need you to be here.”

“Why?” Isn’t it enough that she wants it? Does it really matter why she does? But he feels it deep inside him, very close to the place where his soul burns, that he needs to know. “Why?”

There’s another long pause, and he knows her well enough to understand that she’s fighting again. Not the kind of fight they’ve always danced. But the one he danced alone until today; the steps that she always denied to follow. The dance with truths.

But he’s done with dancing alone. He needs her with him in it, and so he finally turns, not caring that his face is still wet from his tears, trapping her with his eyes. “Why?”

“I was never in my life so afraid of losing someone like I was of losing you when I found you in your crypt.”

At first he thinks she’s evading the question again when he hears her whispering, because it’s nothing new she’s telling him; his memories about the hours in the crypt are more than fuzzy, but _that_ he remembers.

But her hands, always her hands, reach for him again, and this time, she holds his tight, and she’s not averting her eyes, but keeps them locked to his.

“It took me some time to figure out why. So much changed since we got trapped – you changed, and you changed _me_! You cracked my heart open, that part of me that could finally feel _this_ again, this feeling that I hadn’t let myself feel for such a long time. And then you helped me recognize it. And now I know.” She pauses, and her face loses all tension and dissolves into tenderness. “Now I know why I can’t lose you.”

Her voice drifts away, and he moves an inch closer, not willing to let her go yet, but all he gets out when he speaks is once more only the one whispered word.

“Why?”

But her voice is soft, so soft, and he knows it wasn’t necessary. She would have said it anyway, because he can see it in her eyes, and his knees nearly buckle.

“Because I love you.”

He’s hoped so long to hear her say that, and had, once upon a time, several scenarios in his head about how he’d react, what he’d do. He doesn’t do any of it. He can’t, because he can’t move. He knows his lips are moving, but no sound comes out of his mouth. He’s almost relieved when she speaks again.

“I can’t lose you because I love you, Spike.”

He still can’t say anything. He’s a jumbled mess of emotions, of tingling and buzzing, ache and release, fear and laughter, wonder, hope and _happiness_ – there’s simply no room for words. Until he feels her hands tremble in his, and that’s when he understands how frightened she is, too.

“I love you,” she repeats, her voice tiny this time, anxious, almost panicky, because he still doesn’t answer. It’s what wakes him out of his stupor.

He shifts toward her, tentatively, still frightened to the bone himself. She’s so close now, her scent surrounding him, soaking him. He looks into her eyes, and he feels himself falling into them, and her with him, and he knows she’s never been so close before. Nobody ever has.

“Buffy,” he says, and she lifts her head a little, and he knows she heard it too, the depth of emotion that courses through him; it rings in this one word loud and clear, even if it’s spoken so softly. He loosens his hands from hers and raises them to hover at her cheeks, almost touching them, but not quite. And then he closes the tiny remaining distance, so slowly that he wouldn’t be sure when skin finally met skin if it wasn’t for what he sees in her eyes, this gleaming mix of relief and tenderness and _longing_ the moment he finally connects.

Her hands go up to his chest now where they pause briefly, and he knows she can feel him quivering inside. She lets out a little sigh, and then her hands glide up along his neck and behind his head. She gingerly pulls him to her, his body and his head, his arms wrapping around her shoulders, his hands slipping at the back of her neck, buried in her hair. She pulls him so close that their cheeks touch, and he gasps at the sensation, the most intimate contact he’s ever had with her. With her lips brushing his ear, she whispers once more, “I love you,” and a sound escapes him, almost like a sob if it wasn’t for the happiness swinging in it.

She draws her head back, slowly, cheek caressing cheek, until their lips are close. Her breath floats over his skin, and again he hears her breathing, “I love you,” and then, finally, her lips find his.

They barely touch, and they stay like that for a long while, breathing into each other, and he feels like she is breathing life into him. The tension that had him in a tight, hurtful grip slowly begins to ebb away, and he feels himself flowing into her like her breath into him. He says her name once more, “Buffy,” _I love you_ , and that’s when she shuts out their surroundings, their eyes fluttering closed, and kisses him.

It feels like nothing he ever experienced; like losing the ground under his feet without falling down, but into her; like coming home, but to a home he doesn’t know yet, but he knows it’s home. It’s warm and soft and tender, so tender, and it feels familiar and new all in one, because he never kissed with a soul, and he never has been kissed with _love_.

He hears a small whimper and opens his eyes and looks at her. Her eyes are still wide, and there’s something shining in them that he sometimes thought to see a glimpse of, but it always instantly disappeared before he could’ve caught it. Now it’s just there - doesn’t hide, doesn’t run away.

He draws back a fraction, breaking the kiss, but never losing contact with her lips, and breathes her in. “Oh God. Buffy,” he whispers, because it’s almost too much. He feels something inside him burst, and he knows it’s what shaded him from her light, because it hits him with all its force then. But it doesn’t hurt him. It’s just shining brightly into his soul, lighting it, filling it with life.

His arms wrapped around her like hers around him, they hold each other tight, bodies connected like eyes and lips and breath; and then she whispers back, “Make love to me.”

His eyes fall shut and he breathes in deeply, something flooding through him he doesn’t recognize, but he knows it makes him want to cry. He feels her hand on his face and hears her whispering once more, “Make love to me,” just before she kisses him again.

Tears are wetting his face, and he doesn’t know whose they are, and he doesn’t care.

 

***

 

It’s like a dam broke, a dam that had held her hostage instead of protecting her, but she understands that only now.

The moment she said those three words, she knew they were true, and the second he finally touched her face, emotion rolled over her that made her tremble from its intensity, and she knows she’ll never be able to express it with words. For an instant she wonders when exactly she began to feel it, but then she doesn’t care any longer, because all she can think of is getting closer to him, pouring into him with everything she has.

_Make love to me._

It’s all wrong, because _she_ wants to make love to _him_ , wants to show him what she has no sufficient words for; but when she sees his eyes falling shut and feels his arms around her tighten, she knows this is what he longed for most – letting him love her. And with a flash of sudden clarity she knows it’s also part of why he gained his soul - making him the man that was allowed to _love_ her.

She feels tears pooling in her eyes when she cups his cheek and whispers once more, “Make love to me,” and kisses him, and she dimly wonders if they spilled, because she can feel the wetness between their faces.

He kisses her back with so much fervor and yet so softly that it almost hurts her inside. He holds her tightly to him, so much so that she wonders whether he is afraid to lose her or is as overwhelmed by his feelings as she is, but then he makes a tiny sound in his throat and she knows it’s a little of both.

He feels like in a dream. He can feel it with every fiber of his being that she meant what she said, can feel her love in her hands at the nape of his neck, in her lips on his, and in the trembling of her whole body that is pressing against his as if she wants them to merge to one. Like in a dream, he thinks, and he hopes he won’t wake up.

Her hands slowly begin to roam over his body, alternately pressing him closer and caressing him.

His lips slowly begin to roam over her face, her neck, her shoulder after freeing it from her top, only to return to her mouth and kiss all his love into her.

They help each other out of their clothes, piece by piece and without any hurry; there is a lot of time for gingerly caressing newly freed skin, for seeking out each other’s lips and for holding each other, savoring that there’s less and less barrier between them.

Her fingers dance over his skin, feeling him, soaking him in. Their movements are never anything but loving, not frantic like they have been at other times. It’s nothing like then, because it’s only about the longing to _feel_ the other, be close to the other, closer, closer.

He can’t decide if he wants to let his hands glide over her skin, feel her everywhere, and show her with his tender caresses everything he feels for her, or if he’d rather hold her tight to him, feeling her heart throb against his chest, making him feel as if she brings his own heart to life again. He’s glad he doesn’t have to decide, because there’s time for both, and she lets him.

Until the only coherent thought left in him is that he’s still not close enough, that he wants to crawl inside her to be as close to her as possible.

When he finally glides into her they are still standing, just like the first time. But they are not bringing the house down. It’s nothing like that. This time, there’s no fight. All fight has left them, finally, completely. He holds her tight to him and stills, and she’s aware of every single square inch of her skin meeting his. She clings to him, holding onto him tighter than she realizes, but he doesn’t seem to care.

It feels too good to be real, and for a while he just waits for the other shoe to drop. He breathes in her scent, committing it to memory, suddenly afraid that this will be the last time.

When he raises his head from the crook of her neck where he buried it, she’s almost overwhelmed by what she sees in his face. It’s so much love, yet unexpectedly mingled with so much despair that again tears are springing to her eyes. It’s a look as if he’s preparing to say good bye to her, and it makes everything in her ache.

“I love you,” she says again, holding his face in her hands like his heart, his eyes with hers, and again, “I love you.”

He closes his eyes in relief, and it’s then that she realizes how damaged she really still is and how much she damaged him - how many times she has to say it and he has to hear it, feel it, that she really loves him.

It’s this moment when he begins to really _believe_ her.

She doesn’t know how he managed, but somehow he got them down to his basement. He reverently lays her down on his bed, and she’s glad, because she knows, of course, why he does it. He needs it to be different from all the times before, because he is different. Because _they_ are different. And the bed is as different as it gets.

And down here in the dark, she can feel the brightness coming off of him, filling her with light and warmth and love. She feels it rise within her, finally not held back by walls for fear that it could drown in his darkness. And she lets herself feel it, and him, too.

Their fingers entwine, like their bodies and their hearts and their souls.

They both don’t last long. She knows he’s close when he suddenly stills and looks at her, his eyes wide, consuming her, filling her. “I love you,” he whispers, and then he moves toward her one more time, his eyes never leaving hers, tenses and shudders into her arms.

Her eyes riveted to his, she tumbles over the edge with him, tightly holding onto him, because she’s afraid if she doesn’t, he’ll vanish into thin air, just like a dream. It’s in this second that she realizes - she’s never felt connected to someone like she is right in that moment. But then, it’s always been that way, with him. Except she hadn’t known.

Afterwards, they lie still for a very long time, holding each other, feeling each other close. They both need it.

When she breaks the silence, it’s with a shaky voice.

“I’m scared.”

He lifts his head and watches her. Her face is flushed, her eyes round, open, warm. Something crumbles inside him, liquefies under her look, and he smiles gently. “I’m bloody terrified, so I’m kind of gettin’ it.” He tenderly touches his lips to hers, savoring that he can, that she’s still here, didn’t run off.

He carefully shifts them both, making sure to separate their touching skins as little as possible, until they both lie on their sides, their bodies still securely intertwined. He runs his hand over her warm skin, his fingers caressing her, feeling her, taking her in. They go up to her head, letting the silk of her hair soothe the nagging worry that this may be the only time he’ll be allowed to feel that. He sees her eyes flutter shut, hears a soft sigh, and he knows, this is not about permission. She’s here, with him.

“What _are_ you scared about?” he whispers. He knows he has to ask, but he’s not sure he wants to know, even after all they shared.

Her eyes reopen, search his, and she feels the fear easing a bit. “I’ve never done this,” she confesses.

“Done what?”

She sighs. “I’ve never been with someone I loved. Not really.”

He casts her a long look, his brow rises, and she can see the question in his eyes, can practically hear him wondering about Angel. She just looks back, holds his eyes with hers, and after a moment, understanding dawns on his face. His eyes soften; something loosens in them and makes room for a glow she’s never seen there before. It gets brighter the longer she watches, and suddenly she knows - it’s happiness.

He envelops her with his arms again and she’s glad she can feel him, feel him surrounding her.

“So, I guess that’s a first for both of us,” he says, and she feels his low voice vibrating against her chest. “I’ve never been with someone who loved me back. Not really.”

She shifts her head to look at him. Their gazes lock, and she feels the glow shining in his eyes infusing her with joy and contentment, and she can feel the fear beginning to slowly, slowly ebb away, flowing out of her like the tears in her eyes.

He sees her face changing, softening, sees the tears rolling down her face. A stray flicker of early day light finding its way down to the basement makes their traces glisten, shining as brightly as her smile that has slowly formed.

He cups her face with both hands and kisses her, deeply, warmly, loving. They melt to each other, both shaking, and she isn’t surprised a bit when she feels the wetness at her temple where his face touches hers.

*

Much later this is how sleep eventually finds them – tightly wound around each other, bodies and hearts and souls, as close as possible, smiling, peaceful.

Not alone.

Together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's it. Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it!


End file.
